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RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

She turned hastily away and ran down the staircase

Richard Chatterton

V.C

RUBY M. AYRES

FRONTISPIECE BT

PAUL STAHR

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS

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Midt IB the United State of

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RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

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RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.Ce

CHAPTER I

AUTUMN sunshine had been flooding the empty
l\ club-room when Richard Chatterton lowered his
•^ -^ big person carefully into the most comfortable
chair he could find and prepared for sleep, but he awoke
to the chill patter of rain on the windows and the sub-
dued murmur of voices.

He lay still for a moment, not troubling to open his
eyes, and tried to recollect what day of the week it was.

The days were all so much alike to him — ^aimless,
and devoid of any particular interest — the hours all a
kind of apportioned time-table by which he knew exactly
when to eat, and when to sleep, and when to change
his clothes ; a time-table supervised by the irreproachable
Carter.

Carter was a sort of hub in the wheel of his master's
life. Without him the whole structure would probably
have fallen to pieces.

The mind of Richard Chatterton, as he lay in the
deep luxury of the chair with closed eyes, began to
circle round the several annoyances that had rufHed his
usual serenity before he fell asleep.

First and foremost. Carter was getting imsettled; he
was growing absent-minded and forgetful; there was
something the matter.

4 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

when a man was trying to sleq) ! Why on earth couldn't
they march those soldier fellows about without a band,
he would like to know?

Someone in the room behind him scraped a chair
back across the floor and crossed to the window, where
another man was already standing. Chatterton was sit-
ting with his back to the window, his big body half-
hidden in the depths of his chair, but though he tried
not to listen, scraps of conversation floated distinctly
across the big room to him.

"Fine-looking lot of fellows, aren't they? Wonder
how many of 'em'U come back, poor devils."

That was old Jardine speaking. He seemed to have
gone stark, staring mad about the war— could talk of
nothing else — ^and had disturbed everyone's peace at
lunch only that day by fighting imaginary battles with
the cruet bottles and the Worcester sauce.

Of course, the war was a regrettable thing — Chatter-
ton was fully aware of that — ^but he was blessed if he
could see what good it did to talk of nothing else from
morning till night, and spend one's time as old Jardine
did, rushing in and out of the club buying special
editions.

"I'd have answered for a few of those damned Ger-
mans myself if I'd been ten years younger, or have
known the reason why . . ." old Jardine was saying
again in that abrupt voice of his which contained such
a wealth of kindliness. "What the devil some of the
young men of to-day are thinking about goodness only
knows ! Why, when I was a boy I wouldn't have missed
this scrap for worlds. . . ."

His companion laughed rather deprecatingly.

"War was a civilized sort of thing when you were
a boy — ^not butchery, like it is now."

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 5

That was Montague; Montague, who never lost an
opportunity to bemoan the luck that had landed him in
a taxi smash a week before the outbreak of war, in-
capacitating him from active service.

A smashed kneecap and torn ligaments would render
him lame for the rest of his life — "interestingly lame,"
as Sonia had told him, kindly. . . . Montague was to
be best man at the wedding.

The tramping feet had died away now and the blare
of the band; the voices over in the window reached
Qiatterton more distinctly.

"Why doesn't Dick Qiatterton go ? ... a great healthy
animal like he is! That 's the sort of man they want
— ^no responsibilities, any amount of stamina. . . ." That
was old Jardine again; his abrupt speech was inter-
rupted once more by Montague's lazy laugh.

'No responsibilities — when he's going to be married ?"
'Fiddlesticks ! Marriage can wait, and the war can't ;
and, from what I know of Miss Markham, she's not
the girl to keep a man tied to her apron strings when
his country wants him. She'd send him off with a
smile, and be proud to let him go ... if he showed
any signs of wanting to," he added dryly.

Qiatterton felt the blood rush to his face.

What was the old fool hinting — that he was afraid
to go?

"Dicky certainly seems rather to prefer the apron
strings," said Montague smoothly. "He 's a slacker, and
always will be. He's not likely to rough it in the
trenches when he's got an armchair at home and an
heiress with £20,000 a year waiting to marry him. . . ."
There was a sort of bitterness in his voice.

An increase of traffic out in the street drowned Jar-
dine's reply. When the noise had lulled again

6 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

". . . ought to be damned well ashamed of himself!"
were the words Chatterton caught.

". . . Wants treating as a niece of mine treated a
youngster who'd been hanging after her — ^told him to
go and have a cut at the Germans and then come back
and ask her again. . . ."

''And did he go?"

"Go? Of course he did! And so would any man
who was worth his salt. . . . Went out with the first
lot of dispatch riders and came back in a month minus
an arm. They 're going to be married at Christmas,
and she thinks him the greatest hero that ever lived
..." Old Jardine chuckled.

"I can't quite see Chatterton minus an arm," said
Montague. There was something contemptuous in his
voice. "And you can take it from me that he won't
risk it. . . . Playing the heavy Squire down at Burvale
is more in his line. . . ."

Old Jardine looked round quizzically.

"Thought he was such a pal of yours," said he, rather
shortly.

Chatterton had thought so too. He felt horribly as
if some one had sprayed a siphon down his back.

Montague did not answer for a moment, and when he
did one could hear a shrug of the shoulders in his voice.

"Oh, he's a decent enough chap; but I can't stand
this marriage of his . . . he doesn't care two straws
about her — it's only the money he's after. I believe
he'd sell his soul to get Burvale back. Her father
bought it, you know, and, of course, Chatterton gets it
again if he marries her, and that 's all that troubles him.
You know what a slacker he is — confoundedly selfish
beggar, and all that. What chance of happiness do you
think she'll have with him?"

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 7

His voice had risen in his enthusiasm; old Jardine
cut in dryly:

"That's her business, and his — eh?"

The other laughed a little shamefacedly.

**I suppose I shouldn't have said that, but . . . well,
it's out, and I'm not taking it back; he ought to be
damned well ashamed of himself."

If Chatterton's life had depended on it he could not
have moved at that moment to reveal his presence; he
felt as if someone had struck him a knock-out blow.

When next he could catch further words old Jardine
was speaking again.

". . . Don't admire any man for marrying a woman
for her money myself, but that may not be all, you
know. She's a very charming girl; it's quite possible
Chatterton cares for quite her apart from anything

CXd^^a • • •

'*Qiatterton never cared two straws for anyone in his
life except himself. . . . He "

The door opened to admit another man then, and the
conversation ceased.

C3iatterton waited till he knew Montague and Jardine
had left the room, then he climbed slowly out of his
chair and stood with his back to the fire staring before
him with blank eyes.

He had had a nasty shock ; even now he could hardly
believe that he had not dreamt it all.

Montague of all people! Montague, who was to be
his best man — who for years had pretended to be his
best friend!

He was vaguely conscious that a good many fellows
would have bounced up and gone for Montague there
and then; but that was not Chatterton's way; he was
never impulsive, and he hated a row.

8 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

He liked to take life easily; to let it slip by without
any friction.

And so they thought he was marrying Sonia for her
money, did they? And — Burvalel

He looked into the recesses of his mind with sudden
curiosity. Well — ^he supposed it was partially true; he
was fond of Sonia, of course, but he wanted Burvale —
he wanted it more than an)rthing in the world, and mar-
riage '.with Sonia would give it to him.

During the years that had elapsed since his own reck-
less extravagance and foolhardy speculation had made
it impossible for him to go on living there, he had many
times thought of the old place with positive hottie-
sickness.

He knew almost every tree and stone in the garden;
the rambling old house was alive with memories for
him; it had been with deliberate intent that he had
sought out old Markham's daughter when she had come
to town under the chaperonage of Lady Merriam.

But he was not intentionally doing a mean thing; he
me^nt to be good to her and do his best to make
her happy if she did not prove too exacting, and in his
vain man's way he never doubted but that she cared
for him.

Her tremulous fs^ce when he asked her to be his wife
— ^the happiness in her eyes — ^had told him more than
any words could have done .that she was glad. . . .

But that was some months ago now, and lately . . .
well, only that morning, before he came to the club
and fell asleep, there had been that little breeze.

Chatterton smiled as he recalled the incident.

He was very good to look upon as he stood there,
back to the fire, his broad shoulders leaning against the
mantelshelf, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 9

He looked what he was, just a healthy, well-
set-up yotin^ Englishman who had slacked about too
long.

There was a slightly bored expression in his eyes and
round his clean-shaven lips that spoke of too much un-
occupied time; a sort of loose-end look about him that
so irritated old Jardine.

"There ought to be a law to make a young fellow like
that work," the old man once said irately. "If he were
a son of mine I'd turn him out without a shilling to
his name and let him fend for himself."

But Richard Chatterton had no father to turn him
out. He had nobody at all who was interested in his
welfare, unless one coimted the invaluable Carter — and
Sonia!

He walked out of the club-room now, and climbing
into his coat sent for a taxi. A sort of uneasiness drove
him to Lady Merriafn's, where Sonia was staying. He
felt that he must see her again and assure himself that
the morning's tiflf had been really only triviaL

It was still raining a little as he drove away.

A newsboy ran along the gutter with a bundle of
papers under his arm shouting his news:

"Another German defeat . . . great casu-al-i-ties !"

Chatterton drew his shoulders together with a little
shrug of distaste.

He was sick of the war, but he was not at all afraid
to fight if it were coming to that. A sort of half desire
to prove his words by giving old Jardine the lie crept
into his heart.

He fully realized what satisfaction there would be in
calling upon Montague in a blaze of khaki.

The taxi stopping outside a big, gloomy-looking house
checked his thoughts. He had forgotten all about the

lo RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

war by the time he had paid and dismissed the driver
and was handing his hat and coat to Lady Merriam's
footman.

Miss Markham was in the drawing-room, he was
informed.

He cast a hurried glance at himself in a mirror as
be followed the man to the door. He passed a rather
self-conscious hand over the back of his hair; then
he was in the room, and Sonia was looking up at him
from her book.

It struck him unpleasantly that her manner to him
had changed very much during the last three months
of their engagement.

She did not even rise from her chair, and after a
moment's hesitation he bent and dropped a light kiss
on her hair.

"Still cross with me?" he asked whimsically.

She half shrugged her slim shoulders.

"You're not worth being cross with — ^it's waste of
time."

"Good!" He smiled. He thought he was forgiven.
He sat down opposite her and wondered what he could
say next.

Sonia had not been altogether easy to get on with
lately. She, like old Jardine, was always talking about
the war.

At the present njoment a ball of khaki-colored wool
and a half-finished sock lay in her lap ; they gave Chat-
terton inspiration.

He leaned over and touched the wool.

"Why don't you buy them, instead of bothering to
make them?" he asked.

She lifted- her eyes to his face ; such pretty eyes they
were, dark-lashed and frank.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. ii

"That's exactly the sort of , question I should have ex-
pected you to ask," she said. He looked a little puzzled.

"It would be much less trouble to buy them, wouldn't
it?" he submitted lamely.

There was a little silence; she moved her chair back
beyond the reach of his hand.

"I suppose \here is no fresh news?" she asked then.

"News?" Chatterton hastily stifled a yawn. "No —
I haven't heard any, except that Eraser's going to marry
Lillah Banfield, and . . ."

She interrupted him.

"I didn't mean that sort of news."

"Oh! ..."

"I meant war news."

Chatterton's brows contracted.

"I haven't seen the paper to-day — but old Jardine was
ranting at lunch time as usual."

"Mr. Jardine is a dear."

Chatterton laughed, not very mirthfully. He was re-
membering the uncomplimentary tone of old Jardine's
voice half an hour ago in the club. He got up and
went to sit on the arm of her chair.

"Do you realize that a month to-day we shall be mar-
ried?" he asked.

He spoke with slow deliberation, his eyes on her
dainty profile. She did not answer, but he saw with
satisfaction that the color deepened in her cheeks.

It had been just his imagination that she had changed
towards him, he told himself; of course, she was just
as fond of him as ever. He slipped an arm about her
shoulders, and turned her face to him with a hand
beneath her chin: "Kiss me, Sonia."

His own eagerness surprised him; he really wanted
her to kiss him. His heart-beats quickened surprisingly

.: ^

12 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

as he bent towards her. But Sonia held him off with
a hand on his chest.

"Don't. I don't want to kiss you."

He let her go immediately; he rose to his feet.

1 think I'd better be going," he said constrainedly.

1 don't know why you came." There was something
pathetic in the hardness of her voice.

Chatterton looked down at her.

"What's the matter, Sonia? What have I done?
Hang it all, if you can't put up with me now for a
few minutes, how are we going to manage when we
're married?"

She rose then; she stood with her hands nervously
clasped, looking up at him.

"I wanted to speak to you about that. I — I— don't
you think that we ought to put it off?"

He echoed her words blankly.

"Put it off! Put what off?"

"The — the wedding. . . ." Her voice was a little
tremulous. "It doesn't seem right somehow, with this
dreadful war going on, to have a big wedding and spend
a lot of money. . . ,'*

His face cleared; he laughed.

"Silly little girl! It's good for the country to hav«
the money circulated; besides . . ." He slipped a per-
suasive arm round her waist. "Don't you want to marry
me?" he asked.

She stood very straight and stiff within the circle of
his arm.

"I wasn't thinking of that," she said slowly.

There was something in her voice he could not under-
stand, perhaps because he did not trouble to understand.

"I don't see the slightest need to postpone the wed-
ding," he said again presently. "The arrangements are

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 13

all made, and besides . , ." He stopped; he had been
going to tell her the plans he had made, the good time
he meant to have, but somehow, remembering the con-
versation he had overheard in the club that afternoon,
the words seemed to die on his lips.

For the first time he* wondered if she, too, believed
that he was marrying her for her money. He wanted
to ask her, but it seemed such an impossible question.

His arm loosened and fell from about her waist.

Sonia stood looking at him from beneath her long
lashes; there was curiously mingled determination and
indecision in her delicate face. Suddenly

"Why don't you tell Carter it's his duty to enlist?"
she asked.

The words came out with a little rush as if she were
half afraid.

Chatterton turned round slowly; his face was blank
with utter amazement.

"Carter! enlist!" he echoed incredulously.

"Yes." She faced him steadily enough now. "He's
young and strong and unmarried. Of course, I know
he doesn't want to leave you, but "

He began to laugh.

"My dear child, you're not serious, are you? How
on earth do you think I could manage without Carter?
Why . . ." He broke off with an uncomfortable feeling.
"You might as well insist that every one of the servants
down at Burvale rush off and join the army. . . ."

"They have gone — ^all those who are able."

He stared at her — then he shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm glad to hear it," he said dryly. "Unfortunately,
I can't spare Carter." He smiled at her serious face.
"Sonia, have you got bitten with recruiting fever? You'll
be trying to pack me off next, and Montague. • . •"

14 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"Mr. Montague would have gone if he hadn't had that
accident.'*

"So he says. . . ."

She flushed hotly.

"So he would hare done — ^he is not a coward!"

Chatterton's face grew grim; he was remembering
what he had heard Montague say that afternoon ; it had
been playing the coward then, at any rate, to strike at
a friend behind that friend's back.

"I am not so sure," he said deliberately.

She was staring at him with something like fear in
her eyes.

"Richard — ^have you . . . you and Mr. Montague
quarreled?"

Something strange in her voice arrested his attention;
for a moment he did not answer, then

"Why should we quarrel?" he asked slowly.

"Only because of what you said — I thought — ^per
haps . . ." she broke off. "Oh, I can't understand you,"
she added piteously. "If you really want to marry
me. • . •

He had taken a step towards the door, but now he
came back — there was a sort of impatient anger in his
eyes.

"Of course I want to marry you," he said. "And I'm
sorry if I've upset you in any way. Cut the wed-
ding if you like and we '11 get married at a registrar's."
He put an arm about her once more. "Kiss me, Sonia,
and let's be friends."

But she broke away from him.

She began to cry.

Chatterton stood gnawing a lip; he knew very little
about women; he could not see that beneath this in-
explicable mood was a real longing for him to try to

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 15

understand her — a plea for some proof of his love, some
spontaneous affection. He was a thousand miles from
guessing at the real cause of her distress.

"It 's no use my staying," he said abruptly. 'We
seem to get on one another's nerves this afternoon. I'm
sorry I've upset you — I'm afraid I don't understand
women. When we are married "

She looked up, her eyes flashing fire through their
tears.

"We may never be married!" she said stormily.

He shrugged his shoulders. After a moment he
walked from the room.

He was ruffled and angry ; he walked some way down
the road before he realized that it was raining fast;
then he stopped and looked about for a taxi.

The evening hung on his hands, long and empty; he
had intended spending it with Sonia at Lady Merriam's,
but now that was impossible. He could not understand
her in this mood; he could not imagine what he had
done to upset her.

As for the ridiculous question about Carter — ^he tried
to dismiss it with a shrug ; it was absurd to expect every
man to go to the war; a taxi driver, answering his hail,
glided up to the curb.

"Where to, sir?"

Chatterton hesitated — ^where the deuce could he go?

If he went back to his rooms the sight of Carter would
only irritate him; if he went to the club ... a sudden
resolution came to him ; he would go to Montague's flat
and have it out with him. For once in his life he
was just in the mood for a row; Montague should be
made to apologize. He remembered with chagrin that
Montague was still virtually an invalid; one could not
obviously black a man's eye when that man was at a

i6 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

physical disadvantage, and yet . . . Qiatterton felt that
it would be a wonderful relief to his ruffled feelings.

He was surprised at himself ; violence was not usually
at all in his line.

This was proving to be a most unpleasant day, taken
all round.

It was a keen disappointment to learn that Montague
was out.

The servant saw the disappointment in his face and
hastened to add:

"I am expecting him very soon, sir; Mr. Montague
has an engagement this evening and has to dress. If
you will come in and wait."

Chatterton agreed, but his anger had cooled a little
by the time he found himself in Montague's sitting-
room.

It was quite small, and not at all elaborately furnished.

There were many photographs of Montague himself
on horseback and at the wheel of various cars; several
riding whips hung over the mantelshelf ; a silver-mounted
horseshoe formed an inkpot on a strewn writing-table;
a sofa was littered with motoring papers; a pair of
goggles and some fur-lined gloves lay on a shelf.

Chatterton looked round the room interestedly. He
-- had been here many times before, but to-day he seemed
to see it with ne^ eyes.

For years he had confidently called this man his friend.
Now he was not so sure.

He sat down on the end of the sofa and lit a cigarette.

He hoped Montague would not be long; he wanted
to see him before his anger cooled; he knew quite well
that his was a nature that never harbored resentment
for long.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 17

The minutes passed; the silence was unbroken save
for the splash of rain on the windows; the flat was
high up, and one only heard the rumble of distant traffic
faintly.

The silence got on his nerves ; he rose to his feet and
paced the room.

His steps brought him to the mantelshelf; a letter
stood there in prominence against the clock; he glanced
at it casually, then suddenly stood stiffly at attention,
for the letter was addressed to Montague in Sonia Mark-
ham's writing, and had been sent by messenger.

Chatterton had snatched it up almost before he was
conscious of any wish to do so; he turned it over and
over with a horrible feeling of apprehension; it had not
been opened, and had evidently arrived after Montague
went out.

Sonia — writing to Montague !

In a flash he recalled Montague's heated words at the
club that afternoon. What had been the real under-
lying emotion prompting them?

Chatterton passed a hand across his forehead and was
surprised to find it damp with perspiration; he put the
letter back on the shelf, then snatched it up again.

He hated himself for the suspicion in his mind, and
yet — he knew it was there.

As he stood, torn with conflicting emotions, uncertain
what to do, the telephone bell whirred sharply from the
writing-table.

It seemed a tremendous sound in the silence.

Chatterton dropped the letter into his pocket and
walked back to the sofa, expecting Montague's servant
to enter and answer the telephone.

The seconds passed, during which the bell whirred
with intermittent insistence, but nobody came. Chatter-

i8 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

ton went to the door and looked out — the landing was
deserted, there was no sound to be heard.

He shut the door, and, recrossing the room, took down
the receiver.

**Hullo !"

His heart was thumping unaccountably as he waited
for a reply; he spoke again — ^more sharply.

"Hullo !"

Now the answer came — ^rather faintly, as if the speaker
were agitated.

"Hullo r

"Hullo!" said Chatterton again. "Who is it?*'

And then he felt as if all the blood were ebbing away
from his body in a great rush as the small voice came
again tremulously:

"Is Mr. Montague there? I want to speak to Mr.
Montague. Is that you . . . Francis?"

Chatterton stood like a man turned to stone, for the
voice was Soma's.

He roused himself with a desperate effort ; he remem-
bered with a flash of exultation that she had once said
his voice and Montague's were alike. Hardly knowing
what he said — he answered her:

X Co • • . YCd • • •

He heard a little sigh of relief.

"I wrote to you this morning; I suppose you got the
letter — I sent it by hand. Francis, I — I didn't mean
what I said in it — ^please burn it and forget I wrote it."

"You didn't mean what you said in it?" Chatterton
echoed the words stupidly.

"No — are you angry? Your voice sounds as if you
are; but you need not be; I — I'm going to do what
you asked me to. I saw Richard again this afternoon,
and I can't marry him — I can't. Francis, are you alone ?"

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 19

*'I thought perhaps there was someone with you as
your voice sounds so strange. You don't mind my
ringing you up?"

"Of course not."

"And — ^and you are glad? About me, I mean? I'm
quite, quite sure this time; I'm not going to change
my mind any more. I didn't believe what you said
last night about — about Dick — that he was a laggard,
and that he didn't really care for me — ^but I do now,
and ... oh, when can I see you? I have got to go to
the Franklyns* dance to-night — ^Lady Merriam says I
must. Will you be there?"

'Yes." Chatterton felt as if he were choking.

'I'll keep some dances for you, and " The voice

broke, and then went on with a little catch like a sob.
"I don't want to wait any longer, Francis — I'll come
away with you and marry you as soon as ever you like."

"My God!"

The receiver fell from Chatterton's hand, he caught
at the edge of the writing-table to steady himself; he
felt as if a sudden earthquake had ripped up the ground
beneath his feet; his mind was a confused jumble.
There was a step outside on the landing; Chatterton
roused himself with an effort — ^he passed a hand dazedly
across his eyes — ^he felt as if he had been dreaming.

He mechanically restored the receiver to its place,
and had moved a step or two away when Montague's
servant entered.

With his back still turned, Chatterton spoke:

"I shan't wait any longer — ^you might say I called."

"Yes, sir."

Chatterton stood like one in a dream while the man
helped him into his coat; the whir of the descending

20 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

lift all seemed part of a dream too; it was only when
he was out in the night with the pouring rain beating
down on him and stinging his face, that he began to
realize that this thing had really happened, that he had,
in very truth, spoken to Sonia over the telephone — that
he had, with his own ears, heard her tremulous voice
say that she was willing to run away with Montague
and marry him as soon as he pleased.

Montague, who had posed as his best friend . . .!

What a fool he had been — what a blind fool!

Little incidents only hitherto subconsciously noticed
came crowding back to his memory. Montague had
always been very attentive to Sonia, but he had put that
down to affectionate friendship for them both.

He clenched his hands in the deep pockets of his over-
coat.

For the moment he thought only of the insulting de-
ception to himself; for the moment he forgot what this
would mean — the loss of Sonia and . . . Burvale!

The rain was dripping from the brim of his hat and
trickling down his collar, but he hardly noticed it. He
was drenched to the skin by the time he let himself
into his flat.

He kicked his wet boots across the room, and shouted
for Carter. There was no response.

He went out into the hall and shouted again, more
angrily. After a moment he went down the passage to
Carter's room and kicked wide the half -open door.

The room was in darkness. Swearing softly, he
groped for the switch and turned up a light. The room •
was empty.

It was scrupulously neat, but Chatterton would not
have noticed had it been chaotic — his attention was
caught by a recruiting poster fastened above the mantel-

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 2i

shelf with drawing-pins, and surmounted by a row of
little flags such as he had seen hawkers selling in the
streets of London since the outbreak of war.

From the doorway he stared across the room at the
realistic picture of a wounded soldier with fixed bayonet
standing over the body of a fallen comrade, and under-
neath were written the eloquent words : "Will they never
come ?"

And, as if in answer to that appeal, Sonia's words
flashed back to Oiatterton's mind — "Why don't you tell
Carter it's his duty to enlist?"

For a moment longer he stood there staring, a little
frown between his eyes, then he switched off the light
and went back to the sitting-room.

Was that the meaning of Carter's abstraction? — did
that poster explain his growing inattention and forget-
fulness ?

Chatterton shrugged his shoulders as if to rid himself
of an unpleasant thought.

"Rubbish 1" he said aloud. He moved nearer to the
fire.

For the moment he had forgotten his wet clothes;
the many events of the day were crowding back upon
him clamorously.

The outer door of the flat opened and shut softly.
Chatterton turned.

"That you, Carter? CJet me a hot bath; I 'm wet
through."

'Tes, sir."

Chatterton watched the man curiously as he moved
quietly about. He was quite a young fellow, perfectly
trained and capable.

He was rather thin, with a pale, serious face and
dark hair; delicatef-looking, rather than robust.

22 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

"He'd never pass the doctor," was the thought in
Chatterton's mind. "A week in the trenches would finish
him."

The thought was slightly comforting. Chatterton felt
more cheerful as he went off to his bath.

He was dressed, save for his coat, when Carter came
into the bedroom.

"Can you spare me a moment, sir?"

His tone was purposeful, but apologetic. Chatterton
dropped his hairbrush with a clatter and swung round ^
from the toilet-table.

"What is it. Carter?"

There was a tinge of color in the man's pale cheeks.
He shuffled his feet nervously.

"If you please, sir, I should like to enlist."

He picked up the brush and restored it to his master.
"That is — if you can spare me, sir," he added depre-
catingly.

There was a momentary pause, then Chatterton
laughed, rather grimly.

"If I can spare you!" he echoed. He thrust his long
arms into the coat Carter was holding. "I don't know
that I count very much in such a question, Carter."

The man looked distressed.

"You've been a good master to me, sir — ^if it had
been anything but the war."

Chatterton turned to the door brusquely.

"Of course, you must do as you please; I can't stop
you — even if I wished to," he added as an afterthought.
He half turned and looked at the man over his shoulder.
"Have you had any training?" he asked.

"I was three years with the City of London Rough-
riders, sir — Volunteers, of course."

**Humph! Well, do as you please."

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 23

The man's evident determination irritated him. The
events of the day had got on his nerves ; it seemed that
in one fell swoop he was to lose everything he had been
most confident of keeping.

Sonia, Montague, and now — Carter!

He lit a cigar and waited while Carter whistled a
taxi, but he let the cigar go out, and stood by the fire
lost in thought.

This had been a tragic day for him. He could only
wonder what sequel there would be at this dance which
Mrs. Franklyn had inaugurated for the Red Cross
Fund.

Chatterton had not intended to go; he was not at all
keen on dancing. Only yesterday Sonia and he had had
a tiff about that very subject — it gave him a pang now
to remember it.

He supposed he had been rather selfish. He wished
now he had agreed to take her.

Carter came to the door. "The taxi is waiting, sir."

The rain had ceased as they raced along the muddy
roads, but the streets were dark and cheerless. Chat-
terton felt horribly depressed.

Was it really true that his dreams were shattered —
really true that Sonia no longer cared anything for him ?

Hope dies hard, and Chatterton began to remember
again the early days of his courtship and the shy happi-
ness of Soma's pretty eyes when he asked her to be
his wife.

He was remembering it still when he presently climbed
the wide staircase of the Franklyns' beautiful house and
heard his name announced in stentorian tones by a
powdered footman.

Mrs. Franklyn was effusive in her greeting.

**We didn't expect you — Sonia told me you hated

24 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

dancing. You bad man, why didn't you bring her your-
self?"

So she was already here. Chatterton passed on and
mixed with the crowd.

Here and there someone waylaid him; now and then
he was forced to stop and exchange pleasantries; but
all the time he was consumed with impatience.

The ballroom was large; it was paneled with red,
white, and blue draperies and festooned with flags. On
either side curtained archways led into a sort of winter
garden fragrant with flowers and the damp, pungent
scent of ferns.

It was here that he found Sonia. She was with Lady
Merriam and a little throng of courtiers, but they melted
away in ones and twos when they saw Chatterton.

Sonia did not see him directly, but when she did he
was quick to notice the compression of her lips and
the hardness that clouded her eyes. Lady Merriam
greeted him with unfeigned surprise.

"Dick, ydii* laggard ! I thought you were not coming."

"I changed my mind." He bent over Sonia. "I hope
I am not too late for some dances."

He took her dance card from her unwilling fingers.

There was a faint pencil cross against five of the
numbers. A little muscle jerked in his cheek as he
noted the fact ; no doubt she had meant to sit out these
dances with Montague, seeing that owing to his accident
dancing was impossible.

He coolly scribbled his own initials in the five spaces
and returned the card to her.

He saw her glance at it and bite her lip to hide its
trembling.

Lady Merriam had left them together; he dropped
into her vacant chair beside Sonia.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 25

"Is Montague here?" he asked* His voice was quite
calm and casual.

"I don't know . . % I haven't seen him."

Her answer came disjointedly ; Chatterton glanced at
her and quickly away again.

His heart was racing; it had been the greatest effort
for him to speak with such indifference. He was wonder-
ing now with a dull pain why he had never before real-
ized all the daintiness and charm of this girl.

She was dressed all in white, with no ornament save
a necklace of beautiful pearls — one of the many gifts
which her father had lavished on her. Her soft brown
hair was worn rather bojrishly, loosely swept back
and tucked under into a big knot in the prevailing
fashion.

In the ballroom the band had started; there was no-
body near thienL

Qiatterton moved suddenly, twisting his chair round,
and, leaning forward, laid his hand over hers.

"Sonia — ^there is something I want to say to you.'*

*'Welir she said.

Her voice was not encouraging, but Chatterton hardly
heard the little monosyllable.

He was intent on his own purpose; he felt as if he
were fighting for his life; in all the world nothing
counted just then but this girl.

"I 'vc been thinking things over." His voice was
jerky. "Sonia, I 've been a selfish beggar and I 'm sorry.
Can't we begin again, dear — rbegin again from that day
down at Burvale — ^you haven't forgotten ? — ^when — ^when
I asked you to marry me."

He moved his hand from hers and slipped his arm
along the back of her chair, but she drew away, holding
herself stiffly erect.

86 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

After a moment she laughed a little, looking him
straight in the eyes.

"What has happened to make you so down on your-
self ?" she asked mockingly. "Something very serious,
I am sure." She stifled a yawn behind her white-gloved
hand. "I don't like you in this mood, Richard ; I thought
we agreed some time ago that sentiment was silly . . .
oh, here is Mr. Lewin." She turned with a sort of eager
relief to a man who was advancing d6ubtfully. "Yes,
this is our dance." She took his arm and moved away
with him.

He put an arm round her and whirled her into the
crowd of dancers. He was not at all an expert dancer,
and before they had gone the length of the room Sonia
breathlessly asked him to stop.

"Oh, I say, I'm awfully sorry,*' Lewin protested
humbly. "I'm afraid I'm not much good as a partner
. . . shall we sit down?"

He found a seat on the opposite side of the room
to where they had left Qiatterton, and stood beside her
remorsefully.

Sonia was flushed and breathless, but she laughed at
his dismay.

"It's not your fault. . . . We'll go on again directly
• . . I " She broke off.

Lewin glanced down at her. He followed the direc-
tion of her eyes.

"There's Monty," he said, with blissful ignorance of
all that Montague's presence meant to the girl beside
him. "Awful hard luck on him, poor chap, not to be
able to dance. Fine dancer, wasn't he? . . . 'Evening,
Monty."

Montague had made his way across to them. He
bowed gravely to Sonia, and shook hands with Lewin.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 27

'What a crush, isn't it? They ought to get a good
sum for the Red Cross. . . . Don't let me take your
diair."

"That 's all right, my son," said Lewin heartily. He
was a good-natured boy, but never saw any farther than
the end of his own nose. He went off quite happily a
little later when the dance came to an end.

Montague looked at Sonia ... his eyes were somber.

"I got your note. Have you kept any dances for me ?"

She glanced up and quickly away again.

"Yes — ^and — and it 's all right now, isn't it?"

He hunched his shoulders.

"I — ^I suppose so. ..."

A little glint of fear crept into her eyes.

"I thought ... oh, don't you care any more?" He
turned quickly.

"Sonia, how can you ask me! . . ."

"Well, but . . . but . . ."

There was a little quiver in the words; she was re-
membering the constraint of the voice that had answered
her over the telephone that afternoon, and an unnamed
fear tugged at her heart.

"But ... but what?" he asked her softly. " I only
want your happiness, and if — ^if you feel that Chatter-
ton . . ."

She stifled a little exclamation.

"I don't understand you. This afternoon — ^when I
rang you up "

His face changed.

'*You rang me up? I am so sorry, dearest — I didn't
go back to my rooms this afternoon ; I was at the club,
and • . ."

Sonia was sitting up very straight and stiff; there was
a dilating fear in her eyes.

28 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"You haven't been back — all the afternoon?" she
echoed faintly.

"No — ^not-till seven; I had some dinner and came
straight on here; but they ought to have told me you
rang."

He laid his hand over hers.

"You are angry with me. . . . Don't you believe me,
Sonia? I give you my word of honor I haven't been
near my rooms since this morning till I went back to
dress at seven. . . J*

CHAPTER II

FOR a moment Sonia sat staring before her down
the long, dimly-lit winter garden, and there was
a panic of fear at her heart.

She never for one instant doubted that Montague was
speaking the truth, and that being so, who was the man
who had spoken to her in his voice across the telephone?

Richard! . . . Her mind fastened on him with the
certainty of conviction ; their voices were alike — she her-
self had said so many times.

She tried to remember what she had said, but her
mind refused to act. She hardly knew whether relief
or dismay were her chief emotion as she realized that
this man beside her was ignorant of the sudden impulse
that had driven her to yield, at last to his importunities.

For weeks he had been telling her in the thousand-
and-one ways which are sometimes more eloquent than
speech that he loved her.

For weeks he had been making her feel that her love
for Richard Chatterton was no longer the wonderful
reality she had at first believed it to be. Without actually
saying one disparaging word of his friend, Montague
had conveyed to her in some indefinable, subtle way
that he considered Chatterton to be unworthy of her!

Perhaps there had been some faint echoing voice in
her own heart.

A laggard! As such her heart had condemned him,
even while for the life of her she could not have said
one word to try to waken him to a sense of his duty;

30 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

pride prevented her — ^she would not tell him where his
duty lay if he could not see.

That afternoon she had reached the end of her en-
durance; when Chatterton had walked out of the room
she told herself that she had done with him.

Bitter disappointment and disillusion had beaten down
her love for him ; he was a laggard — a weakling, content
to stay at home while others cheerfully offered their
lives in the sacred cause of freedom.

The rebound had driven her to consider Montague,
who only last night had at last over-stepped the thin
barrier of pretence that so-called honor had erected be-
tween them, and told her that he loved her.

To give him credit, he had done it remarkably well;
with just that touch of shame — ^just that admission of
his own unworthiness which unconsciously appeals to
the vanity of even the best women.

Chatterton's wooing had been very different; he had
taken it for granted that she cared for him. Looking
back on the scene afterwards, Sonia could not remember
that he had even asked her the question.

But Montague with his picturesque lameness and his
bitter reviling of the fate that had prevented him from
rushing off to join the colors, had been so entirely a
figure of romance.

When after the first mad moment he had bitterly
blamed himself for his disloyalty to Richard — his friend
— she had found ready excuse for him.

"I never meant you to know," he had stammered, per-
fectly conscious that she had known for weeks.

After the little quarrel with Chatterton she thought
of him with a sort of passionate gratitude.

She did not realize that all along pique was in reality
the propelling emotion that drove her.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 31

Montague's impetuous love-making had swept her off
her feet.

In the morning she had been cahner; she had written
him a note saying that they must both forget what had
happened. She was engaged to Richard — and she could
not break her word.

After the letter had gone she had been afraid — it had
not been definite enough. Impulsively she had followed
it with another, in which she told him that she could
never care for any man but Chatterton, and that she .
thought it would be better if they did not meet again
unless it were absolutely necessary.

This letter had never reached Montague — Chatterton
himself had taken it from the mantelshelf that evening
and pocketed it unread.

And, then, again the pendulum of indecision had
swung. She believed that Montague was the better
man of the two, and that she was throwing away the
substance for the shadow.

Impulsively she had telephoned to him — ^with what
result ?

Her brain was in a whirl ... it had been Richard
who had answered her; who had heard her condemna-
tion of himself.

And yet — neither by word nor look had he allowed
her to know during those few moments when he sat
beside her before the dance begun. His manner had
been much as usual — a little more affectionate perhaps.
. . . Could this be the reason?

Had he at last realized how near he was to losing
her, and — ^and Burvale?

Sonia had more than once heard it unkindly whispered
that it was her home and her wealth more than she
herself that had drawn Chatterton to propose* She

32 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

pressed her little white-slippered feet hard against the
floor and set her teeth.

The band was slowly finishing the last bars of a waltz ;
couples were crowding into the winter garden, laughing
and talking.

Montague was looking at Sonia uneasily.

*'What is the matter? How have I offended you?"

She tried to force a smile, but her lips shook. She fell
back on the usual feminine excuse for her abstraction.

"I have such a headache; I didn't want to come, but
Lady Merriam seemed so anxious that I should."

"Poor little girl," said Montague softly.

Something in his voice that was so like Richard's
brought the tears to her eyes.

"Sonia " Montague half turned to her, then drew

back sharply as Chatterton came through the archway
leading to the ballroom.

He came forward smiling easily.

"So here you are," he said. He sat down on the
other side of Sonia. "The next is our dance, I think."

Montague rose to his feet, limping perhaps a little
more than was strictly necessary. "Thank you so much
for taking pity on me," he said to Sonia, and moved
slowly away.

Chatterton had been scrutinizing his dance card. He
returned it to a pocket and looked at Sonia. "Do you
care to dance or would you prefer to sit out?"

She rose hurriedly. "Oh, let us dance."

She was afraid of a tete'd-tefe with this man.

She glanced up at him timidly as she took his arm.
He was smiling down at her with friendly eyes.

A sudden doubt came to her. . . . Supposing it had
not been he in Montague's room? And this smiling
serenity of his hid nothing after all?

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 33

She shrank a little when he put his arm about her
— ^he was so big and strong. For the moment she forgot
her bitter disappointment in him and remembered only
that once she had loved him very dearly. Once she
had thought him the most wonderful man in all the
world . . . once she had believed herself the happiest
woman. . . .

Presently she stopped with a sudden feeling of
weakness.

"I don't want to dance any more — I 'm tired."

She was not tired, but the touch of this man's arms
and his nearness, that had once been so dear to her,
was a stronger argument in his defense than any words.
She walked a step away from him as they left the ball-
room. It was unconsciously that she went back to the
same sofa where she had sat with Montague.

There were velvet curtains to the archways that led
to the winter garden; one of them had fallen from its
loop, shutting out the crowd of dancers. It left Sonia
and Richard Chatterton almost isolated.

Chatterton went to the back of the sofa, and, leaning
over, put his arms round the girl.

"Do you love me, Sonia — do you love me?"

She could not remember that he had ever asked her
before; in spite of the determination she had made to
harden her heart against him, she found herself listening
to the caressing tone of his voice.

If he had been a little different, how she could have
loved him ! The thought flashed through her mind, even
as she held herself stiflBly away from his kisses. She
flung back her head, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Isn't it rather late — ^now, to ask me that?" she
questioned.

34 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

He came round to sit beside her; he still kept his
arm about her waist

"I've been a fool, I know — ^but I didn't understand.
I do love you, Sonia . . . better than anything in the
world. . . ."

It was very clever of him to get that ring of sincerity
into his voice, she thought fiercely; she did not for one
moment believe he was in earnest. She tried to deaden
her heart to the pleading voice beside her — over and
over again in her mind she was saying — "It is not me
he wants — it's my money and Burvale — ^it's not me he
wants at all."

She clasped her hands hard in the lap of her white
frock; she found herself speaking incoherently.

"It's too late now. ... I don't want to be married
— I — I — thought I did, but I don't. I meant to have
told you to-morrow, anyway. It's all been a mistake —
I dotf t care enough for you to marry you. ..."

"Sonia !"

She kept her eyes steadily averted.

"It's quite true . . . I'm sorry . . . I've only my-
self to blame." She drew a hard breath and hurried
on: "It's not your fault that I thought you different
from what you are, but I can't marry you ... I can't
—I can't."

She felt his arm fall from about her waist, and for
one sickening moment she longed to turn to him, to put
her arms round his neck and take back all she had
said. Almost a hurried denial of her words had rushed
to her lips.

"No, no ... I don't mean it! I do love you . . .
I do."

She bit her lip till it bled to keep them back.

Chatterton was white to the lips; there was a startled

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 35

look of shock in his eyes. He had never expected this ;
he had been confident that he could win her back. It
was a tragic coincidence that only now — when he had
lost her — ^he should realize that she herself was more
to him than the wealth and possessions she would bring
him.

He broke out suddenly. "You don't mean this . . .
you're angry with me. You've every right to be I
admit. I can't tell you how sorry I am. Give me an-
other chance, Sonia. I know I 'm a selfish brute, but
I do love you, 'pon my soul I do!"

His arms were round her again.

"Forgive me, Sonia. We '11 get married and live
happily ever after. We'll get married when and how
you like — I don't care if only you are my wife. . . ."

He saw the warm blood creep up over her chin till
it flooded her face; the passionate contempt in her eyes
stung him. . . .

'I'll never marry you. . . . I've done with you.
" She tore the glove from her left hand and
showed him that his ring was gone. . . .

"I was going to send it back to you to-morrow — I
don't really want to marry you. . . . I — I don't think
I ever — really — loved you. . . ."

His careless, confident mention of their marriage had
stung her as nothing else could have done. She broke
free of his encircling arm and rose to her feet.

To his despairing eyes she had never looked more
desirable.

He had risen to his feet, too. For a moment they
stood looking at one another — ^both white-faced and
quivering.

Chatterton was remembering Sonia's voice as it had

«<T>1

• .

36 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

sounded only that evening over Montague's tele-
phone. . . .

"I don't want to wait any longer, Francis — I '11 come
away with you and marry you as soon as ever you
like. . . :'

So she had spoken, and in his blindness Chatterton
believed that this, and this alone, was the reason for
his shattered dreams.

She cared for Montague — Montague who had gone
behind his back and stolen his love.

Someone lifted the dropped portiere curtain; old
Jardine's plump figure and genial face appeared.

"So here you are," he said cheerily. "Chatterton, you
mustn't be selfish, my lad. Miss Markham promised
me this dance, and here you hide away." He broke off,
looking from one white young face to the other.

Sonia clutched his arm with a little gesture of relief.

"I 'm ready. I didn't mean to hide away. Mr. Chat-
terton and I have quite finished our conversation."

The tone of her voice was unmistakable ; old Jardine's
eyes grew troubled.

"Dick, my boy " he began. '

But Chatterton had already turned on his heeL

He strode the length of the winter garden unseeingly
— ^blind to everything but his own gnawing jealousy and
despair.

Montague ! he must find Montague I find this so-called
friend who had robbed him. He cannoned with some-
one approaching. He pulled up sharply with a muttered
apology, then stopped dead — for the man was Montague.

- *i.^

CHAPTER III

OLD Jardine was a man for whom a mistaken
destiny had decreed eternal bachelorhood.
He would have been a devoted husband had
anyone proved anxious to put him to the test ; he would
have been an ideal father of harum-scarum sons and
daughters; but the only woman to whom he had ever
dared suggest matrimony had smiled in his anxious, em-
barrassed face and told him that he was cut out for
a bachelor.

Jardine had believed hen Since then no other woman
had ever caused his kind heart to beat a stroke faster
than usual. He had trotted contentedly through life,
leaving many landmarks of little unobtrusive kindnesses
as he went.

He had the wonderful gift of understanding. One
glance at Sonia's face had told him that he had stumbled
into the very heart of a tragedy.

He remembered with a sort of remorseful chagrin
his own conversation in the club that afternoon with
Montagfue. He wished he had not been so downright
in his condemnation. He wondered if something of
that conversation had reached Sonia, and was responsible
for the pallor of her face and the hardness of her eyes.

He stood silently with her on the fringe of the crowd
for a moment.

"You don't care about this, I 'm sure,** he said at
last. "We '11 go along to a cozy little room I discovered,
and be greedy all to ourselves."

38 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

Sonia flushed — ^she protested eagerly that she would
much rather dance, but Jardine only laughed.

"Well, then, I must confess that I wouldn't," he said.
"I 'm too old for this kind of game. . . ."

She was really relieved; she would have given all
she possessed just then to have gone home and locked
herself in a darkened room. The noise and laughter
around them made her feel more keenly her own desola-
tion; there was something comforting in Jardine's
presence as he guided her through the crowded room
and out into the hall of the big house itself.

"I flatter myself that this is my discovery alone,"
he said as he pushed open a door and stood aside for
her to enter.

The room was only firelit; big chairs were drawn up
close to the cheery blaze; old Jardine began peeling off
his white gloves.

"Now what do you say to this ?" he demanded cheerily.

Sonia smiled. "I think it's lovely." She sat down
in one of the big chairs.

She was conscious of a horrible heartache; the bare-
ness of her left hand without Richard Chatterton's ring
was a tangible loss.

Old Jardine trotted away to the door. After a mo-
ment he came back smiling.

"I've told them to bring us a little supper in here.
What! You don't want any? Nonsense, my dear — I
don't suppose you've had a decent meal for hours."

He sat down beside her. "Jove!" he said suddenly.
"I might have asked Dick Chatterton to join us. Shall
I?" He was on his feet again, but Sonia caught his
arm.

"Oh, please — please not" Her voice was tremulous.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 39

*'But, my dear ■/'

She sat up with sudden determination.

"We've quarreled — ^he and I; at least— oh, we're not
engaged any longer."

Jardine sat down again.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said gravely — ^'Very
sorry." He laid a kindly hand on her lap. "But you'll
make it up again," he said hopefully. "It's only
a tiff — a lovers' quarrel." He tried to laugh. "You
wouldn't have thought an old bachelor like I am would
have known that now, would you?" he submitted.

Sonia shook her head — there were tears in her eyes.
We shall never make it up," she said in a low voice.
Oh, please don't let us talk about it any more." But the
tears welled over and fell to the lap of her white frock.

Old Jardine could not stand the sight of tears. A
scowl crossed his pleasant face. "If Chatterton's been
behaving badly "

She interrupted him quickly.

"Oh, no, no. It's all my doing — ^not his. Please
don't think that! I broke it off entirely of my own
free will !"

A manservant entered with a dainty supper-tray; he
set it down between them on a small table.

"You won't tell anyone, will you?" Sonia pleaded.
She had wiped away her tears with an absurd hand-
kerchief.

"My dear, of course not ! But I shall hope very much
to hear that things are all right again." He rubbed. his
chin in perplexity. There was an uncomfortable thought
at the back of his mind. Supposing this rupture were
anything to do with himself — and Montague!

That Montague cared for Sonia he was sure.

40 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

The little supper-party was a failure ; neither of them
had any appetite, and it was an effort to keep conversa-
tion going.

Jardine took Sonia to Lady Merriam and went off to
find Chatterton. He wanted to rid himself of the un-
formed suspicion that was troubling him. Supposing by
chance anyone had overheard that conversation in the
club and repeated it!

Old Jardine cursed himself for a gossiping fool. He
ought to have remembered that Montague was, of course,
prejudiced. He was genuinely distressed as he wan-
dered round the ballroom and through the many passages
in search of Richard. Had he known that Chatterton
and Montague were together, he might have been more
disturbed than ever, but the encounter between the two
one-time friends passed unwitnessed.

There had been a moment's eloquent silence after that
mutual recognition in the doorway. Montague was the
first to speak.

"Hullo, Dick, not tired cf the fun already?"

"I was looking for you."

There was no trace of anger in Chatterton's voice,
but an anxious glint crept into Montague's eyes.

"Well, here I am. Shall we go and have a drink?
I find it a bit slow, not being able to trip the light fan-
tastic. . . ." He broke off, struck by something in Chat-
terton's manner. "What on earth's the matter, man?"
he demanded irritably.

Chatterton let the curtain fall into place behind him.

"I don't think there's any need for me to answer
that question," he said curtly. "When a man's friend
deliberately goes behind his back and plays a dishonor-
able game. ..."

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 41

Montague lost color, but he shrugged his shoulders
with admirable indifference.

"I don't understand you ; if you'll explain what you're
driving at "

Chatterton's hands were clenched, but he kept himself
well under control

"I was in the club this afternoon when you and Jar-
dine were talking. . . ."

Montague started, but forced a smile.

"Well, you know the old saying that listeners never
hear any good of themselves," he said lightly, "My
dear fellow, we all of us say things behind one another's
back which we should never say to one's face. What
did I say that was so very terrible?"

"You practically called me a coward; you accused me
of sheltering myself behind my coming marriage from
volunteering ; and, not content with that, you told Jardine
that I was marrying Miss Markham for her money,
and . . ."

"And was I so very much mistaken?"

The thin pretence of friendship was down now.
Montague's eyes no longer veiled their hatred and jeal-
ousy. "I only said what all London has been saying for
the past six months. Everybody knows that without Bur-
vale in the background you would have taken your wares
to another market . . • If that is all your quarrel with
me, I admit that I did say that you were marrying Miss
Markham for her money. You practically admitted it
to me weeks ago. I don't blame you — ^you're not the
first man who's done it, and you won't be the last. If
that's all your quarrel with me, Dick . . ."

"And supposing that is not all ?" Chatterton demanded
fiercely.

There was a moment's silence. Montague shrugged

42 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

his shoulders, but he limped a pace or two away, so t£af
there was now a table between them.

"If it is not " he said. "You had better tell me

the rest. We may as well have it all now you have
started. Go on. . . ."

"I went round to your rooms this evening — you were
out — ^I don't know if they told you that I called."

"I heard — ^yes. . . .'*

"While I was there the telephone rang. ... I don*t
think I need say any more." The color ebbed slowly
from Montague's face. "Perhaps you understand now
how it is that I discovered that the man I believed to
be my best friend is a cheat and a liar, and . . .*'

Montague broke out savagely.

"Cheat and liar yourself ! Do you imagine that every
man is a blind fool because you happen to value a heap
of bricks and mortar more than the sweetest woman
who . . ."

"You can keep your tongue oflf Miss Markham's

name."

Chatterton was white with rage. Unconsciously he
had raised his voice. The curtain at his back was pulled
hastily aside and old Jardine entered. . . .

One glance told him the meaning of it all — he inter-
posed his portly figure with anxious haste between tlie
two men.

"Not here, Dick — ^not here. Have you taken leave of
your senses? Do you want a scandal in front of all
these people ? What the devil are you both thinking of ?"

Montague laughed nervously.

"It's Chatterton's doing; he's stumbled on a mare's
nest. Overheard some conversation in the club this
afternoon. You were there, Jardine. You know what
was said."

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 43

Old Jardine looked dismayed.

"Overheard — who overheard ?"

Chatterton answered.

"I was half asleep in the chair. At first I had no
intention of listening — afterwards, I admit that I stayed
where I was on purpose. I'm glad that I did. If I
hadn't I might have gone on being fool enough to im-
agine that I counted you both amongst my friends."

"I'm more sorry than I can say. We ought not to
have spoken as we did." Old Jardine was horribly dis-
tressed. In a flash he realized what incalculable harm
they might have done; he was sure now that something
had reached Sonia. He blundered on with the best in-
tentions in the world.

"If you will allow me to speak to Miss Markham,
1 am sure she will allow me to explain."

A sudden gleam flashed into Montague's eyes.

So this was the explanation of it all — Sonia had
broken her engagement with Chatterton. That telephone
call had been of great importance after all.

Her agitation with him that evening was accounted
for. She had thrown Chatterton over. The conviction
gave him back his lost self-possession.

"I really don't think there is anything that Miss Mark-
ham would wish explained," he said, with cool insolence.
"Chatterton's concerns are no longer of interest to her.'*

His meaning was unmistakable. The tone of pro-
prietorship in his voice for the moment drove Chatterton
mad. He made a sudden rush forward.

Montague staggered back to avoid him, and, slipping,
fell heavily, but before he could rise old Jardine was
between them. His hands held Chatterton's arms in a
grip of iron.

"For God's sake, Dick! . . . remember where you

44 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

are — ^think of Miss Markham's reputation if you care
nothing of your own."

Montague had dragged himself to his feet. He limped
to a chair and dropped into it, swearing under his breath.
The fall had shaken him considerably. He looked up
at Chatterton, white-faced and furious.

"I suppose I ought to have been prepared/' he said,
between his clenched teeth. "I ought to have known
that only a coward would strike a lame man. • • •"

CHAPTER IV

IADY MERRIAM looked up with a smile when old
Jardine brought Sonia back to her.
-^ Her ladyship had just finished a very hearty
supper, which she had thoroughly enjoyed.

She was a middle-aged wo^an, inclined to be stout,
and with a reputation for having been the greatest rip
of her day.

Looking at her now, as she leaned back amongst a pile
of cushions, it was difficult to believe; but old Jardine
could remember when as a slim, high-spirited girl she
had set the whole of London talking with her escapades.

She had run away with Merriam, the penniless younger
son of a younger son, and he had considerately died
before she had had time to regret it.

Two years' happiness had seen the end of her
romance, and she had never remarried.

She added to her minute income by "introducing"
the daughters of the nouveaux riches.

When her friends told her she ought to marry again
she only laughed.

"I'm too old for romance," she would say. "The
only thing I really enjoy now is a good dinner. Oh,
I know it sounds horribly greedy, but it's the truth."

She moved her skirts a little to make room for Sonia
on the couch beside her.

"Well, are you enjoying it, my dear?" she asked.

Sonia did not answer.

"I think Miss Markham is tired," old Jardine said,
in his kind voice.

46 RICHARD CHATTERTON. V.C

Lady Merriam looked concerned.

"Heavens! And where is Richard Chattcrton?"

Sonia rose to her feet. She felt as if she could not
stand another moment of this strain.

"Oh, I should like to go, if you think we might,"
she said pleadingly. "Mr. Jardine could explain for
us . . . and — there isn't any need for Richard to leave."

Lady Merriam said: "Stuff and nonsense. It's his
place to look after you. If he can't do it now, what
on earth's going to happen when you're married?"

The color rushed to Soma's face. She bit her lip
hard. Jardine felt terribly sorry for her. He rushed
into the breach by offering to go and find Richard.

"If he's dancing I can't very well bring him along,"
he said diplomatically. "So if we're not back in ten
minutes don't you wait, Lady Merriam."

But it was nearer twenty before Lady Merriam con-
sented to be dragged off to the cloakroom.

"Richard is most lax — most lax," she said vexedly to
Sonia as they were driving away. "I think you are
not sufficiently exacting, Sonia. It's just as necessary
to train a husband as it is to train a child."

Sonia said nothing, and Lady Merriam went on.

"Of course he's quite a nice boy, and I can quite
understand your infatuation for him, but "

Sonia broke in desperately.

"I am not in the least infatuated with him." She
felt ashamed and miserable ; the thought of the romantic
love she had given to this man scorched her. In her
heart she was an idealist; she hated to feel that she
had been so thoroughly mistaken in him. She supposed
wretchedly that it was his appearance that had deceived
her.

Lady Merriam was staring at her with blank eyes.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 47

"I suppose you've quarreled/* she said at last with
a sort of gasping resignation. "Well — ^well, I suppose
even the most devoted people quarrel sometimes; but

with the wedding day so near " She gave a little

vexed sigh. "However, I dare say he'll be round on
his knees in the morning asking forgiveness."

Sonia felt an insane desire to laugh, and yet there
were sobs struggling in her throat.

"I don't think he's likely to come either to-morrow
or any other day,'* she said painfully. "We've — ^we've
•—the engagement's broken off."

". . . either to-morrow or any other day." Her own
words struck her heart with a sense of deadly loss.

Once she had only lived for his coming; once the
sound of his step or the ring of his voice had made
her heart race and the color fly to her face; but he
had never been what she thought him; she had just
created a hero in her own imagination and endowed him
with Qiatterton's face and figure.

". . . not to-morrow or any other day. • . ."

It was all at an end ; they were nothing to each other
any more. She tried to believe that she was glad.

Lady Merriam said, "Good heavens!" and then, "Oh,
good heavens!" again helplessly. She let the window
of the car down with a run; she loosened the wrap
about her throat, as if she were choking.

"Of course you're not serious, Sonia," she said, in
the deadly calm voice of one who fully realizes that
what she has just heard is perfectly true, but obstinately
refuses to believe it.

"I never was more serious In my life.**

Lady Merriam went on: "I've had quarrels myself.
OPoor Merriam and I had the worst row of our lives
the night before we ran away. I swore I would never

48 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

marry him, and he even went so far as to say that he
hoped to heaven I never should. But, bless you, I turned
up at the church in the morning as meek as a lamb,
and there he was, waiting at the door in his best suit
and with a face as white as a sheet for fear I shouldn't
come. You '11 be laughing at all this next week, Sonia."

Sonia did not reply.

Lady Merriam tried to take her hand.

"Forgive him, child," she said anxiously. "He's only
a man, and they're none of them perfect. I don't know
what he's done, but whatever it is, I dare say he's
sorry enough for it by this time. He's had his own
way too long; but he's really fond of you . . •"

Sonia laughed mirthlessly.

"Fond of my money and of Burvale, you mean,'* she
said in a hard voice.

"Sonia I"

"Well, it's the truth ; it's been at the back of my
mind all along. I — I suppose I was too fond of him — too
foolish. . . ." She bit her lip to steady its trembling.
"However, I'm glad I really found out before we were
married; it would have killed me if I hadn't known it
till afterwards."

Lady Merriam leaned back with a look of utter help-
lessness. "And the wedding?" she asked faintly.

"We must put an announcement in the papers ; that's
the usual thing, isn't it?"

"Your wedding dress came home last night," Lady
Merriam went on. She was talking like a sleep-walker ;
she simply could not believe that she heard aright.

She had entered heart and soul into this marriage.
She had been so triumphant to have the richest debutante
of the season married from her house; and now, to
have all her dearest plans knocked on the head . . .

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 49

"And the wedding cake ordered from Buzzard's . . ."
she said, almost in tears. "And Francis Montague to
be best man. . . ." She looked at Sonia with sudden
suspicion. "Does Montague know?" she demanded.

For the life of her Sonia could not keep back the
burning flush that flooded her face; the suspicion of
Lady Merriam's eyes deepened to conviction.

"I always distrusted that man," she said involuntarily.
"I always knew that in his heart he was really no friend
of Richard Chatterton's "

"It has nothing to do with him ; I broke the engagement
of my own free will."

"He's been playing up for it for months. I never
could understand why Richard allowed him to be
eternally at your heels."

"Richard never cared who was with me as long as
I made no exactions on his time and attention."

"Sonia, you're not trying to tell me that you've
thrown Richard over for Francis Montague?" There
was disgust in Lady Merriam's voice.

Sonia stammered her reply.

"I 've not thrown him over for anyone; I wish you
wouldn't use that expression. I don't want to marry
anyone at all. . . ."

"With all his faults, Richard is twice the man Mon-
tague will ever be," Lady Merriam went on vehemently.
"I detest those devoted sort of creatures who would
lie down and let you walk over them. Give me a man
who doesn't crawl! The way Montague has traded on
that lame leg of his makes me sick. Now if he'd had
a German bullet through it, I should have more sym-
pathy, but the accident was entirely his own fault. The
way he used to race about the roads in that car of
his was a public danger. . . ."

so RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"He would have gone to the war if it hadn't hap-
pened."

"Would he? I doubt it. It's quite easy to shout
patriotism when you know there's no chance of ever
being called upon to show it in a practical way; not
that I wish to be uncharitable, but if you're thinking
of marrying him, I consider it's my duty to tell you
you're making a mistake. He's the sort of man who
would do his best friend a shabby turn if he got the
chance, and, apparently, he has got the chance," she
added dryly.

Sonia was trembling.

"He isn't a coward, at any rate," she burst out pas-
sionately. There was a moment's silence, then

"So that's it, is it?" said Lady Merriam blankly. She
looked at Sonia with a strange expression in her eyes;
suddenly she leaned over and kissed the girl's white face.

"Bless you!" she said affectionately. "I don't know
whether to be proud of you or scold you. There are
scores of women in London to-day moving heaven and
earth to keep their men from going to the war, but
you . . . Well, I suppose you're right."

She left Sonia to herself after that till they reached
home. She sat back in the corner of the car concocting
a story to tell everybody about this broken engagement,
and wondering whether she could persuade them to be-
lieve it.

She said good night to Sonia in the hall. There was
something very lonely and pathetic about the girl's white
figure, she thought, as she remembered pityingly that
she had no mother to go to, no one to confide in. She
called to her softly.

"Come here, my dear. . . ." Sonia turned and came
back a few steps.

RICHARD CHATTERTON V.C 51

''Yes?" she asked.

Lady Merriam put kindly arms around her and kissed
her warmly.

"Don't you fret," she said. "It will all come right
some day."

But she heard Sonia sobbing as she ran up the stairs
and vanished. Lady Merriam sighed.

"And I believe she's fond of the boy all the time,"
she told herself. "I shall have to speak to Jardine and
see what can be done."

Upstairs Sonia had paused on the wide landing to
wipe the tears from her eyes. She knew her maid
would be waiting for her, and she was not one of those
to wear her heart on her sleeve. When presently she
entered her room she was composed, if a little pale and
wan-looking. The maid looked surprised to see her.

"I came home early — my head aches," Sonia explained.
She was painfully conscious of her ringless left hand;
she found herself trying to keep it hidden as her frock
was being unfastened.

In the long glass opposite which they stood Sonia
glanced anxiously at the girl's face, but there was no
sign of curiosity about her. She kept her eyes down-
cast. Only when she rose from her knees with Sonia's
white frock trailing over her arm did Sonia see that
her face was tear-stained, her eyelids swollen as if with
much crying.

Sonia turned impulsively. "Oh, Lena, is anything the
matter ?" She forgot her own troubles ; she laid a kindly
hand on the maid's arm.

Lena turned her face away; the tears were falling.

"It's only what I always dreaded," she said in a muffled
tone. "It's Mr. Carter . . . he . . ."

"Carter I" Sonia echoed the name quickly; she knew

52 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

that for a long time Lena's aflfections had been given
to Richard Chatterton's man. "Oh, surely he isn't going
to be married, is he?"

The girl shook her head; she apologetically brushed
away a tear that had fallen on Soma's white ballgown.

"Oh, no, miss — not that ; but I think it 's almost worse.
... I wouldn't mind so much if I knew he was settled
down and happy, but if he 's killed ^"

"Killed !" Sonia caught up the word breathlessly. "Do
you mean that he has enlisted?" she asked slowly.

Lena choked back a sob.

"He's going to to-morrow. I saw him this evening,
and he told me that Mr. C3iatterton had given him per-
mission at last."

CHAPTER V

OLD Jardine nibbed his chin with an agitated hand
as he looked down at Lady Merriam.
"But I tell you I can't get hold of the lad!''
he said exasperatedly.

"I haven't set eyes on him since the night of that
confounded ball, and you know what happened then!
If it hadn't been for me there would have been the most
awful scandal. I never knew Chatterton had it in him
to be so furious ; he'd have settled Montague if I hadn't
come along. . . . Not so sure that he didn't deserve it,
either," he added grumpily.

Lady Merriam frowned.

"So now it seems that you 're at the bottom of all
the trouble," she said unkindly.

"Confound it all, I 'm sick enough about it," he sub-
mitted gloomily. "But who 'd have guessed that Chat-
terton was asleep in the room all the time? Like a
pair of gossiping old women we were ; blessed if I know
who started the conversation. . . ."

"Montague, I should imagine," said her ladyship dryly.
"That man 's a snake in the grass. I never liked him,
as you know. He 's worked all this beautifully, only
Sonia can't see it. Of course, she 's made a hero of
him; thinks he really minds not being able to go to
the front, though it 's my opinion that he could go if
he wanted to," she added brusquely.

"Come, come!" Old Jardine shook his head rq>rov-

54 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

ingly, though there was a smile in his eyes. "We must
give the devil his due, you know. They don't take men
with broken knee-caps and stiflF joints. Does he come
here often?"

"Every day. I got up and walked out of the room
yesterday when he called. I suppose it was rude, but
the whole thing 's dreadful to my way of thinking. Sonia
will hardly go outside the house; she cried her eyes
out, poor child, the morning that notice appeared in
the Post saying there would be no wedding. I had to
insert it — it was impossible to call on everyone per-
sonally. She persists that she cares nothing for Richard,
but . . . well, I 've got my own opinion on the sub-
ject."

Old Jardine rubbed his chin again.
If I could only get hold of him," he said ruefully;
it would be something. I Ve written twice, but he
won't answer. I 've called at the flat half a dozen times,
and that man of his insists that he's never in. He
keeps clear of the club, and I can't find a single man
of his acquaintance who's seen him since the night of
that confounded ball, and that's a week ago."

"I expect the poor boy is like Dick Swiveller — dodging
his creditors," said Lady Merriam sympathetically. "I
hear that they came down on him like a pack of wolves
when they heard that his engagement to Sonia was at
an end. You know, in spite of everything, my sym-
pathies are entirely with Richard. . . ."

Old Jardine turned from a moody contemplation of
a vase of flowers.

"I'm glad to hear you say that — darned glad," he
said heartily. "I feel entirely the same myself. Mon-
tague hasn't played the game with him. By the way,"
he added with change of voice, "you know that man

» •

«1

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 55

of Chatterton's — Carter, isn't it? — ^has enlisted; he told
me so when he opened the door to me this afternoon.
You know I never thought Richard would let him go.
He broke off, catching himself up hurriedly.
'Here I am — ^talking gossip again," he went on in a
vexed voice. **I suppose there's nobody asleep in your
chairs ?"

Lady Merriam laughed.

"No, I think not But I knew Carter was going —
Soma's maid is in love with him! He thinks himself
too good for her, of course — such nonsense!"

Old Jardine shook his head rather sadly.

"We're living in terrible times — terrible!" he said
heavily. "And there's worse to come yet. . . . Shock-
ing thing! shocking thing!" Old Jardine cleared his
throat loudly. "Gad! if I were only fifteen years
younger," he said with a sort of ferocity.

He paced the length of the room, and came back to
where she stood.

"I suppose you haven't anything to suggest ?" he asked
meekly.

"Suggest! Haven't I suggested everything under the
sun ?" Lady Merriam demanded truculently. "I tell you
I've set my heart on Sonia marrying Richard Chatter-
ton; it's an ideal marriage. Burvale's his home, and
he's the only man who ought to be its master; it makes
my blood boil to think of Montague down there. He's
thoroughly poisoned Sonia against Richard; she thinks
he 's a coward, just as you do — oh, yes you do, my good
man; it's no use your protesting."

Old Jardine looked troubled.

"If it were possible to give Chatterton the tip "

he suggested feebly. Lady Merriam looked scornful.

"If Chatterton is waiting to be told he'd better not

S6 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

go at all," she said positively. "You can't force a man
into the army, you know; and it would make matters
worse if Sonia even suspected such a thing."

"I can't understand why she didn't speak to him about
it right out."

"Can't you? Well, I can. When you've made a
sort of god of a man you want to shut your eyes for
as long as possible to the fact that he's only tin after
all. It's too late to do an)rthing now, I'm .afraid."

Lady Merriam rose and shook out her silken skirts;
she glanced at a diamond-studded watch on her wrist.

"I don't want to be rude," she said smilingly. "But
if you won't stay to dinner, I shall have to turn you out."

"I should like to stay, but I'm going round to Chat-
terton's again: I dare say that man of his will refuse
to let me in; but if he does, I'm going to stay on the
step till I do see him; he's got to come out some time
or other . . ." he broke off as the door opened and
Sonia came into the room, followed by Montague.

There was a little silence; Lady Merriam went back
to her chair and took up a book ; Jardine nodded a curt
"How do" to Montague; he had already shaken hands
with Sonia.

Montague was smiling ; he had met Sonia in the Park,
and had walked home with her.

"He is going to stay to dinner, if you don't mind.
Lady Merriam," Sonia interrupted in her clear voice.

She was looking very pretty, and not at all unhappy,
Jardine thought with a sort of chagrin. He would have
been better pleased to have seen her with pale cheeks
and sad eyes ; he was not quite sufficiently versed in the
ways of women to realize that they are proverbially
clever at hiding pain, and that Soma's rather set smile
and running fire of talk covered restless unhappiness.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 57

She chatted about everything under the sun; she al-
luded to the ball as if nothing of import had happened
that night; she said that she wished somebody would
get up another as she had enjoyed it so much.

Lady Merriam looked up from her book at that.

"You didn't stay long, anyway/' she said bluntly.

She was sorry for her words when she saw how the
girl winced, but it exasperated her to see Montague
standing there so smiling and confident.

Old Jardine rushed gallantly to the rescue. He cov-
ered Sonia's agitation by a cheery exit; he invited
Montague to accompany him. Montague looked at Sonia.

''I have asked Mr. Montague to dinner/' she said
deliberately.

She gave one the impression of having set herself to
some task she meant to carry out, no matter how dis-
agreeable. Lady Merriam half shrugged her shoulders
and followed Jardine from the room.

"You see!" she said tragically, when the door was
closed. "You see how confident he is— one would think
they were married already. The only thing to his credit
is that we can't accuse him of being a fortune-hunter,
as he is quite wealthy himself."

"We must hope for the best," said old Jardine, but
he was not very hopeful. He, too, had noticed Mon-
tague's smiling confidence.

"I 've made up my mind to see Richard to-night, any-
how," he added more cheerfully. ' "And where there's
a will there's a way, you know, even to an old fellow
like me."

"You I You're not old," Lady Merriam declared. "I
always say that you're the youngest-looking man for
your age that I know."

Old Jardine looked pleased.

58 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"She 's a wonderful woman, wonderful !" he told him-
self as he walked away from the house. "Can't imder-
stand why she's never married again."

He was still thinking about her as he made his way
once more to Richard Chatterton's flat; he was remem-
bering little incidents of the day when he had screwed
up his courage to ask her to marry him; the day when
she had smiled in his anxious face and told him that
he was cut out for a bachelor.

Of course, she had been in love with poor Merriam
all the time ; it was only a few days later that they had
made a bolt for it.

A lifetime ago it seemed, but now for the first time
Jardine found himself wondering why she had not mar-
ried again. Twenty-five years is a long time for an
attr;active woman to remain a widow, was the thought
in his mind as he rang the bell of Richard Chatterton's
flat with a determined finger.

After a moment it was opened by Carter — ^who very
determinedly barred the way when old Jardine made
a movement as if to walk past him.

"Mr. Chatterton is engaged, sir." He was quite re-
spectful, but decided. Old Jardine grew red.

"The same old tale," he said irascibly. "Whenever
I call you tell me your master is either out or engaged.
Very well then, I'll wait till he's disengaged, that's
all; and, if you haven't got the manners to ask me in,
I'll wait out here on the step.'*

The man looked distressed.

"I'm only obeying orders, sir, and Mr. Chatterton's
orders were that he is not at home to anybody."

"But, damn it all, I *m a friend of his. Have you
told him that I've called half a dozen times ? My name's

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 59

Jardine. Tdl him that Jardine wishes to see him/'

"I've delivered all your messages, sir. I'm veryf
sorry, but Mr. Chatterton was most firm."

Old Jardine lost his temper.

"Very well. Shut the door in my face. I can sit
on the step, and he'll fall over me when he comes out/* /

He drew back a pace, looking round as if to find a
suitable spot in which to put his words into action. .
Carter broke out hurriedly:

"You are making it most awkward for me, sir."

He had momentarily relaxed his vigilance, and, with
a swift movement, old Jardine brushed him aside un-
ceremoniously and stepped into the halL

"I'll take all the blame, my man," he said grandilo*
quently. **You*ll not suffer for this in the least."

He crossed the narrow hall in a couple of strides and
pushed open the closed door of Chatterton's sitting-room.,

At first glance it looked to him as if an earthquake
had taken place there: the table and chairs were strewn
with things; a portmanteau, over which a man in uni-
form was bending, yawned wide in the center of the
hearthrug.

At sound of the opening of the door, the man straightr
ened his back and turned. Old Jardine gave a stifled
exclamation, and for a moment stood stock still, a curious,
mixture of delight and dismay on his jovial face. The»
he rushed forward with outstretched hands.

"My dear boy — ^my dear boy • . ."

But the tall man in the khala uniform drew back a
very decided step.

"I can hardly imagine that you wish to shake hands,
with me," said Richard Chatterton curtly.

Old Jardine's beaming smile fell away piteously; for
a moment he stared at Chatterton's relentless face with.

6o RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

blank eyes. His almost boyish delight in having got past
the implacable Carter had for the moment driven all
remembrance of his errand out of his mind; he remem-
bered it now distressfully.

Carter had followed him into the room. From the
doorway he began an agitated apology for having been
unable to carry out his master's instructions.

Old Jardine turned on him irascibly. "You won't be
blamed — I told you that Go away, man — go away and
shut the door."

"It's all right, Carter,** said Richard Chatterton.

There was a ghost of a smile now in his eyes ; already
his usual good-nature was dangerously near asserting
itself. He was genuinely fond of old Jardine; he knew
perfectly well that it would be impossible to stand on
his dignity with him for long.

Old Jardine had put his hat down on the table and
thrown his gloves into it.

"I'm a blundering old fool, I know," he said. "I
admit everything; I've come here to apologize. I'll
eat every word I said in the club a week ago. I ask
your pardon very sincerely, my boy — I hope you'll for-
give me.**

A little spark of anger crept back into Chatterton's
lazy eyes.

"You're apologizing — ^because— of this?" he asked.
He indicated his uniform.

Old Jardine grew red in the face.

"I'm apologizing because I said an unwarrantable
thing about you behind your back," he said manfully.
**No scandal-mongering old woman could have made a
more complete ass of herself than I did; gad! boy, it
does my old eyes good to see you in this. . . ." He

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 6i

laid an affectionate hand on the brown sleeve of Qiat-
terton's jacket.

Chatterton colored a little.

"Oh, that!" he said with feigned indifference. "I've
worn it for a couple of days now." He looked suddenly
suspicious. "Who told you?** he demanded.

"Nobody — 'pon my honor; I'd no more idea than the
dead that you'd joined anything."

"You thought I hadn't the pluck." The resentment
in the young man's voice changed suddenly; he laughed
and held out his hand. "Let's cry quits," he said.
"After all, I suppose I 'deserved all you said; but it
wasn't that I funked, whatever you may have thought;
but I just drifted on, and then — ^there was Sonia. . . .'*
He stopped abruptly. "You know she's chucked me,
of course?" he asked again constrainedly.

"She told me herself; but it'll all come right when
she sees you in this. . . ." Jardine pulled himself up,
realizing that he had blundered.

Chatterton paled. "What do you mean?" he asked
sharply.

Old Jardine fidgeted; he coughed and cleared his
throat, and coughed again nervously.

Chatterton stepped past him and shut the door.

"Now, what do you mean?" he asked again.

There was a moment's silence, then: "I mean that I
believe she thought you funked," said old Jardine brus-
quely. "Oh, it's no business of mine, I admit ; I'm only
a meddling old fool; but Sonia is a hero-worshiper.
She's got wonderful ideas of patriotism and duty; she
would have given her right hand if you had rushed off with
the other lads who went in August. And Montague,
confound him! . . , there, I am scandalmongering

62 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

again !" He subsided into the nearest chair and mopped
his hot face.

Chatterton was standing with his dibow on the mantel-
shelf, staring down into the fire.

After a moment he turned.

"I think you're mistaken," he said very quietly.
**There may be something in what you say^ but that
wasn't the prime reason. Sonia never really cared for
me — she told me so." He thought of that afternoon in
Montague's room and Sonia's voice as it came agitatedly
to him across the 'phone.

**She chucked me for Montague,'* he went on in a
hard voice. "There 's no harm in my telling you ; every-
body will know soon."

"Dear me! dear me!" said old Jardine.

He was very perturbed indeed; he hardly knew what
to say.

Chatterton walked over to a side table and came back
with a box of cigars.

"Have one?" he asked abruptly. "I hope you'll ex-
cuse the muddle," he went on, with rather a forced
laugh. "But I leave to-morrow, and I've been sorting
things out."

Old Jardine looked round the room; he saw now
that most of the furniture had gone and that the cur-
tains and pictures were all taken down.

"You 're giving up the flat?" he asked.

"Yes; I've sold some of the stuff and stored the
little. I wanted to keep. It'll save a lot of bother
— if I never come back."

Old Jardine winced.

"Don't talk like that, my boy; besides, you won't be
sent out to the front yet awhile."

"I hope we shall. I chose the regiment with the idea

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 63

of not being kept hanging about ; we 're to go out with
a draft of the Irish Guards.*'

You've got a commission, of course?"
Oh, no, I haven't — it meant waiting about too long;
but I've put in for one,**

He shrugged his shoulders. "Don't you see this is a
Tommy's uniform?" he asked whimsically.

He turned round for inspection.

"The jacket is a bit short," he submitted, laughing,
"and I had to have the trousers made specially, as they
didn't have a pair long enough, but they're comfortable,
and all supplied free of cost by His Majesty's Gov-
ernment."

"I never thought they were Bond Street cut," said old
Jardine, with a chuckle. "But — well, damn me if I 've
ever seen you look smarter!" There was an odd sort
of pride in his voice; one would have thought Richard
Chatterton was his son- "Gad! what a surprise for
Nell Merriam when I tell her, and won't the fellows
at the club sit up! We'll have a farewell supper
and "

Chatterton swung ixnmd sharply.

"No, we wont," he said, with quiet determination,
"because you're not going to tell them. I don't want
any send-off and stuff of that sort. I 'm not going out
V.C. hunting. I 'm going because — well, I 'm dashed
if I know why I am going," he added, with a sort of
rueful whimsicality*

Old Jardine rose and laid a hand on the young man's
shoulder.

"You're goii^ because you're made of the right
stuff," he said, "and I'm proud of you. If I were ten
years younger I'd be with you like a shot." He gripped
Chatterton's hand hard for a moment, then let it go.

64 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

as if ashamed of his momentary emotion. He went back
to his chair and made a great business of selecting and
lighting a cigar.

''Know any men in the regiment ?^ he asked casually
between puflfs.

A smile crossed Chatterton's face.

"Yes, I know one of them very well indeed !" he said.

*'Good! Who is it?**

''Carter!"

"What !"

"I said Carter. He 's one of the "best chaps I 've ever
met, and I'm not at all sure that it isn't he who's
responsible for my going at all. . . . Sonia always said
I couldn't get along without him," he went on jerkily
after a moment. "And I suppose she was about right;
anyway, we're going together. . . ."

"Humph!" The cigar had gone out; it seemed to
take old Jardine a long time to relight it. Presently
he said:

"And you won't let me tell Miss Markham. . . ."

"If you do I'll never speak to you again as long
as I live. 1 shall just drop out, and in a couple of days
they'll forget that such a person ever existed. After
all, there's nobody I care a hang about — ^now."

There was a little silence.

"One thing I think you ought to understand, Dick,"
old Jardine ventured presently, "and that is, that by
clearing off like this you leave the field open to— well,
to Montague. Lies have been going round about you,
and — ^may I speak quite plainly?"

"Please do."

"Well, then, you know as well as I do that it's an
open secret that you're in debt and mixed up with
money-lenders. It's been said that you were to marry

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 65

for money ; probably Miss Markham has heard that, and
you know what women are ; you have to hurt their pride
very badly before they'll turn you out of their hearts
— eh? Anyway, it's like throwing up your last chance
to clear oflf without a word to her/'

"I must take the risk of that It's all up as far as
I 'm concerned; and as to that yam about my wanting
her for her money — ^well. . . ." He gave a great sigh,
turning it off quickly with a little laugh. "I'd take
her this minute if she hadn't a penny," he added
vehemently. "I've been a thundering fool, but it's
too late to undo things now. Have a drink?"

He mixed a whisky and pushed it across to old Jar-
dine. He lifted his own glass and held it to the light
with a little half-mocking smile.

"Well, here's to the future," he said, "whatever it
brings."

Old Jardine's hand was not quite steady as he raised
his glass.

"Here 's good luck and a safe return," he said gravely.
"Think of me when you meet those damned Germans,
my boy, and aim straight."

They both laughed.

"It'll be like meeting an old friend again to handle
a rifle," said Chatterton. "I 've gone through the train-
ing* you know."

Old Jardine nodded. "You ought to be a useful
man," he said encouragingly. "You '11 let me have news
of you, Dick, when you can?"

"Yes ; there's no one else I shall write to ; and you've
given me your word to say nothing, haven't you?"

"You needn't ask that And you're really leaving
here to-morrow?"

Yes; the flat is let already, I believe. Surprising

66 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

what you can do in a week if you put your back to
it, isn't it?"

Old Jardine drained his glass and rose.

"Well, I must be toddling, and you've got a lot to
do, I dare say."

He took up his hat and stared into the crown. There
was a sort of anxiety in his kindly face. Suddenly

"So youVe quite forgiven me, Dick? . . . There^s no
ill-feeling? I shouldn't like to think you'd gone away
«till longing to punch my head. . . ."

Chatterton held out his hand.

Old Jardine took it in both of his with an affectionate
grip.

"Take care of yourself, my boy. Good luck, and God
bless you ! Gad ! If I were only twenty years yoimger !"

He caught up his hat again and turned to the door,
but his eyes were misty, and he stumbled against a chair
as he went.

"Can't see as well as I used to,'* he complained irascibly.
*'rm getting old, you know, Dick — getting old. . . .
Take care of yourself, boy — ^take care of yourself, and
write me a line when you can. Write me a line ! Gad !
If I were only twenty years younger ! . . ."

Out in the hall Carter came forward to open the
door for him. Old Jardine stopped dead and scrutinized
the man's expressionless face.

"So you're taking your master along with you, eh?**
he said abruptly. "Well — mind you bring him back
again. He's one of the best, and we've lost enough
brave fellows already, God knows. . . . Here's a
sovereign for you, my man — tot, tut! I hate to be
thanked! Gad! If I were only twenty years
younger! . . ."

He felt very old and obsolete as he walked away

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 67

through the dark streets; but there was a sort of pro-
prietary pride in his heart as he thought of Chatterton.

"I knew there was the right stuflF in the boy/' he told
himself delightedly. "He only wanted waking up.'*

But he regretted having had to make that promise;
he was sure at the back of his own mind that this
would have brought about a complete understanding be-
tween Richard and Sonia.

But a promise was a promise, and old Jardine had
given his word.

Still, when the next morning he met Sonia walking
in the park with Lady Merriam's two Pekingese pup-
pies, he skillfully engineered the subject round to Chat-
terton.

"He has given up his flat— <iid you know?" he asked
innocently, and Sonia looked away across the grass as
she answered: "No, I don't hear anything about him

now."

There was a little silence.

"He's going abroad, I'm told," old Jardine pursued
airily. "The best thing he can do, too — eh?"

Sonia's pale face flushed suddenly.

"Where is he going?" she asked constrainedly.

"I really haven't heard definitely," said old Jardine
deliberately. "But it can hardly be for a pleasure trip
to the south of France or Monte Carlo, can it?" he
chuckled, as if he had said something very witty.

Sonia's pretty face hardened.

"No," she said scornfully. "I should imagine France
would be the last place he would think of going tol"

One of the Pekingese pups created a diversion at that
moment and spared old Jardine the difficulty of a reply
by running between his legs and nearly upsetting his
balance.

68 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

Sonia caught the little silky animal up in her arms
and slapped it soundly.

"Tiresome little wretch!" she said.

As a rule she adored the foolish little creatures, but
this morning they irritated her.

Old Jardine glanced at her flushed face remorsefully.

"Ugly little beasts, aren't they?" he said.

Sonia laughed rather shakily.

"You know I think they're perfectly lovely, and Lady
Merriam would never forgive you if she heard you say
such a thing."

Old Jardine grunted.

"Absurd — the affection that woman wastes on dogs,"
he complained.

Sonia smiled.

"She has got no one else to waste it on," she reminded
him gently.

Old Jardine blew his nose violently.

"She ought to marry again; handsome woman like
that," he declared.

"I think so, too; I wonder why she hasn't." She
looked at him with a little pucker between her eyes.
Did you know Lord Merriam?" she asked interestedly.
Did I? I should think I did; wild sort of chap,
he was — ^Irishman; nice fellow, though — ^broke his neck
in the hunting-field. . . ."

"How dreadful!"

"Humph! Might have been worse; she might have
had to sit beside his bed for a month and watch him die.
I hope I shall go out as easily as poor Merriam did."

"She was saying only last night how he would have
loved to have been in this war," Sonia said. "She
thinks he was such a wonderful man ; she said she wished
she had half a dozen sons so that they might all go
and fight for England."

, t ' , i ' — ^^ tr

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 69

"Nice sort of life she'd have with six sons at the
front," old Jardine growled. "She's the sort of woman
who'd sit and break her heart imagining things that
never happened."

"Oh, no ; I don't think so ; she 's so brave . . ." Sonia
answered with quick warmth.

Old Jardine glanced down at her sideways.

"You're fond of her?" he queried.

Sonia lifted her eyes, smiling.

'Why, of course I am ; we 're going down to Burvale
next week together . . ."

"You are! Going to leave town?"

'Tfes ; I— I think I 'm tired of London."

There was a little quiver in her voice; old Jardine
said "Humph !" rather crossly. After a moment, he sug-
gested deprecatingly :

"You wouldn't like to ask me down for a week-end,
I suppose? I've always had a wish to see the place
again. I was there once when it belonged to— humph!
Ah! humph!"

"When it belonged to Mr. Qiatterton, you mean,"
Sonia finished for him. "You'll find there are a lot
of improvements now." She stopped with a little catch
in her voice, remembering how all those improvements
had been carried out to please Richard.

She hated it because she felt sorry for him — sorry
when she recalled the way his lazy eyes had flashed into
animation whenever Burvale was mentioned; sorry for
him because he would never be master there now — ^never
. . . never.

She went on hurriedly, as if trying to outstrip those

memories.
«

I've given up part of the house to wounded soldiers.
There are some coming there iiext week. I wish it were
summer — they 'd love the gardens so."

70 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

"The gardens were very fine, I remember," said old
Jardine reminiscently. "There was one walk where the
trees met overhead. Did you speak, my dear?"

"No — ^no. . . ." She had only caught her breath at
the memory of that shady walk and the spring morning
when Richard had asked her to marry him.

They had driven down there for the day with Lady
Merriam as chaperon; but her ladyship had discreetly
fallen asleep in a deck-chair, and she — ^and Richard . . .
but what was the use of thinking about it?

She set the little Pekingese pup down on the path
— ^and stopped.

"I shall have to turn now. I " Her eyes fell sud-
denly, and were lifted again with a sort of quick self-
consciousness, as if someone or something in the distance
had arrested her attention.

Old Jardine swung sharply round; but he knew well
enough who was coming towards them — Montague!

He was immaculately dressed in gray tweeds and a
Homburg hat worn at the correct angle. He was walk-
ing slowly — "to give full expression to the picturesque
limp" old Jardine told himself, with a sense of irritation.

"An unexpected pleasure," said Montague as he joined
them.

He raised his hat gracefully.

"Like a damned actor fellow!" thought old Jardine
crossly.

He wondered if they expected him to take his leave.
At 2iny rate, whatever they expected, he had no intention
of doing so. He walked obstinately between them as
they all retraced their steps, more slowly now, to suit
Montague's lameness.

The conversation was necessarily desultory and stiff;

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 71

Sonia was painfully aware of something antagonistic in
old Jardine's attitude.

It was Montague who introduced Qiatterton's name
into the conversation: Sonia had stopped for an instant
to fasten a leash to a collar of one of the pups.

"Have you heard that Chatterton 's cleared?'* he asked
Jardine.

The old man echoed the last word irascibly.

"Cleared! What the devil d'ye mean?"

Montague shrugged his well-tailored shoulders.

"Cleared out of England. His flat is empty, and that
man of his — Carter — ^has enlisted: it only means one
thing, of course."

"What thing?"

"Debts and difficulties, I suppose — ^now his marriage
is off." He lowered his voice. "That's all that kept
the creditors quiet, you know," he added confidentially.

Old Jardine's blood was boiling; he longed to be able
to turn and rend this man with the truth ; in imagination
he could see himself theatrically exploding his bomb-
shell; he had to bite his lip to keep the words from
rushing impetuously out.

"So he's run away from his creditors, has he?" he
said, as quietly as he could. "Should have thought it
would have taken more than a couple of tailors and
a handful of moneylenders to scare Dick Chatterton."

Montague looked surprised.

"I never knew you had a very high opinion of his
courage," he said, with a veiled sneer.

Old Jardine swung round, turning his back on him;
he was purple in the face; he spoke to Sonia chokingly.

"If you'll excuse me, I must be getting along; an

y2 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

important appointment ; sorry to leave you. . . . See you
again soon. . . ."

He raised his hat stiflSy, and, without glancing at
Montague, dashed oflf furiously into the crowd.

Sonia looked after him rather nervously.

"Why, what is the matter?" she asked.

Montague laughed.

"Oh, he 's a bad-tempered old boy," he said evasively.

The girl flushed indignantly.

"He isn't ! I think he 's a dear."

Montague frowned.

"We don't want to waste time talking about him, do
we?" he asked in a low voice. "Sonia, haven't you
thought over what I said last night, and aren't you going
to be kind to me? ... I 've been very patient"

She looked away from his ardent gaze.

"I can't — not yet; it's so soon. Oh, I couldn't bear
to let anyone know so soon; it's only a week ago
that— that . . ."

" — That you ended an engagement in which you had
never been happy. What could people say except the
truth — that you had thrown Qiatterton over for me ?"

She broke in distressfully.

"I couldn't — it's so soon! If you love me . . ."

"If I love you!" he echoed reproachfully. "You
know well enough that I love you. . . ." He gave an
impatient sigh. "Sonia, once you would have come away
with me, and not cared what anyone said. . . ."

"What do you mean?" Her eyes were frightened;
she recalled that afternoon when, in a revulsion of pas-
sionate feeling against Chatterton, she had rung this
man up on the 'phone and said — ^what wild and foolish
tilings had she not said?

He smiled indulgently.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 73

^Don't look so scared, sweetheart. I am only guess-
ing what you wanted with me that day of the dance.
You were angry with me because I said I was not in
when you rang up; I could not understand it at the
time, but afterwards "

"Afterwards?" she echoed faintly.

He laughed complacently.

"Qiatterton gave the game away. You know I told
you that we had a bit of a scene that night. Well, he
let out that it was he who had answered the 'phone; he
was in my rooms "

"You never told me.**

Sonia felt cold and sick. So, after all, it had been
Dick! Though he had never let her know, either by
word or sign; in memory she was back again in the
dim light of the winter garden with Chatterton*s arms
round her.

"Do you love me, Sonia?"

She tried to thrust the memory from her as she had
tried to thrust the speaker then, but as she walked beside
Montague the voice seemed to follow her with its wist-
fully haunting words:

"Do you love me, Sonia? Do you love me, Sonia?"

They had reached the park gates now, where an in-
terested crowd of spectators were standing watching a
regiment of new recruits pass. Very few of them were
in uniform, and many of them still marched with the
self-consciousness of igtiorance; but they all looked
happy and well, eyeing the onlookers cheerily, and
now and then passing chaffing remarks to each other.

As they passed the comer where Montague and Sonia
were standing they broke into a snatch of song. • • .

•Here wc are— here we are---here we are again! . .

74 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

One of the Pekingese pups rushed out into the road
barking a mild protest. Sonia followed and caught him
up in her arms laughingly. A friendly-looking Tommy
smiled, catching her eyes.

She rejoined Montague, flushed and breathless.

"Aren't they just splendid ?" she asked enthusiastically.

He laughed rather skeptically, without answering.

It had begun to rain a little; Sonia looked dismayed.

*'I must have a taxi ; if these little creatures get their
feet wet they'll take cold and die — and then Lady
Merriam will never forgive me. . . ."

"There is one coming; may I drive down with you?*'

She would like to have refused, but had not the cour-
age; he followed her into the taxi, taking care to avoid
the muddy little paws of the two tiny animals, who were
barking excitedly.

Perhaps it was unconsciously that Sonia drew as far
away from him as possible, leaning back in the comer;
he looked at her with pleading eyes.

"Dear — ^you're not afraid of me . . ." he took her
hand.

She let it lie passively in his.

"No — oh, no; but ... oh someone will see.*'

The driver had just turned into Constitution Hill and
slowed down suddenly to allow another taxi to pass;
for a moment the windows of the two cars were abreast.

Sonia, glancing towards the other timidly, caught a
fleeting glimpse of its occupant — a man in khaki.

She gave a little stifled cry, and dragged her hand
from Montague's.

"What is it? What is the matter?" he asked.

She shook her head; she was white to the lips*

"I though it was Richard ... it was so like him."

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 75

She forced a shaky laugh. "For a moment I was sure
it was he; but it couldn't have been, could it?"

Montague did not even trouble to glance towards the
taxi which had been keeping abreast with theirs; he
smiled rather superciliously in answer to Soma's agitated
question as he echoed eloquently:

"Chatterton! In khaki?"

There was something contemptuous in the denial the
words contained. Sonia bit her lip, staring straight in
front of her.

The other taxi had shot ahead of them now, and
was lost in the stream of traffic; the rain came down
harder ; big drops chased one another down the windows
and blurred the outside world.

Montague tugged at his mustache and frowned; he
was finding Sonia very difficult in these days; during
the time that had elapsed since her broken engagement
he hardly seemed to have made any headway with her.

When they reached Lady Merriam's he made no at-
tempt to enter the house with her; he thought less
anxiety for her company on his part might pique her
and act as a stimulus. It angered him to realize that
she was hardly conscious of the omission ; she bade him
a hurried good-by and ran up the steps to the house with
the little dogs barking and yapping at her heels.

Lady Merriam had not waited lunch for her; she
looked up apologetically as the girl entered.

"I thought 3'ou were waiting for the rain, so I began ;
I was so hungry." She glanced past the girl towards
the door as if expecting someone to follow her.
"Alone?" she asked.

"Yes. Mr. Montague drove me down from the Park."

"Oh." The exclamation was rather curt.

76 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

Sonia flushed; she knew perfectly well that Lady
Merriam did not like Montague.

"I met Mr. Jardine as well," she added rather con-
strainedly.

"Did you?*' Lady Merriam beamed now. "I wanted
to see him. I went to Richard Chatterton's flat this
morning, and ... oh, I forgot"

"You need not mind speaking about Mr. Chatterton
in front of me," said Sonia quickly. "And I know that
he has gone abroad."

"Who told you?"

"Mr. Jardine."

Lady Merriam looked interested.

"Where abroad, exactly?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"Of course, France seems the only possible place
abroad for a man to go to nowadays," said Lady Mer-
riam rather tartly. "But I imagine he has not gone
there."

"Hardly, I should think."

Sonia wondered why she felt so very near tears; she
Icept her eyes bent steadily on her plate.

"Mr. Jardine wants to come to Burvale," she said
presently. "He asked me this morning — ^he has been there
once before."

"I know — ^he has often spoken about it. I don't sup-
pose he is the only visitor we shall have— eh, Sonia ?"

"If you mean Mr. Montague — I haven't asked him."

"I don't suppose he'll wait for an invitation. That
was one thing I always liked about Richard Chatterton;
he never forced his company on one. . . ."

"No ; he certainly never did that" There was a touch
of bitterness in the girl's voice as she remembered days

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. ^7

when she had longed for him to come to her; days when
he had stayed away, intent on some other amusement.

"Why did you go to his flat?" she asked suddenly.

Lady Merriam hesitated; she made a great business
of peeling a peach in order to gain time; when at last
she answered she kept her eyes from Soma's.

"I lent him a book some weeks ago; probably you
don't f emember it, but I did, and I wanted it back ; that's
all. By the way, Sonia, if you take my advice you'll
ask him to return all your letters and photographs. He
must have dozens of them."

Sonia's flushed face quivered.

"I don't mind him keeping them; they are no use
to me."

"That is sheer nonsense. If you marry someone else,
as of course you will, even if Montague falls out . . .'*

"Lady Merriam!" indignantly.

"Well, my dear, you know I never liked the man, and
I hope you won't marry him, but supposing you do, he
won't be particularly pleased to know that letters of
yours and photographs are in Richard Chatterton's pos-
session. Take my advice and write to him for them."

"Mr. Jardine says he has already left his flat ; I don't
know where he is, and if I did I shouldn't write."

Lady Merriam pushed her plate away.

"Please yourself; it's no affair of mine, of course;
but you know the old saying about being off with the
old love before you are on with the new. . . . Oh, my
dear, I didn't mean to upset you."

Sonia burst out crying; she evaded Lady Mqrriam's
remorsefully outstretched hand and ran from the room.

Upstairs, the sight of her face made her ashamed.
After all, what was she upset about?

Someone tapped at the door — a servant entered; he

78 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

carried a small patxsel on a tray which he handed to
Sonia.

The girl was conscious of a sudden apprehension ; she
half extended her hand to take it, and drew back.

"What is it? Who— who brought it, Parkins?"

The man answered woodenly without raising his eyes.

"It was Mr. Carter, if you please, miss — ^Mr. Chatter-
ton's servant"

CHAPTER VI

IT was only when Sonia saw the many letters she
had written to Richard sent back by his own hand,
unwanted — ^unvalued — that she realized how tan-
gible a thing had been the hope in her mind that some
day something would happen to bring him back to her*

Now the hope was dead; she shivered a little as she
carried the handful she held over to the fire and threw
them on to the red coals, pressing them down and hold-
ing them there with the poker till they were nothing but
gray, feathery ash.

She sat down and began a letter to Montague, but
her pen got no farther than the "Dear Francis." She
did not know what to say; no words would come; she
tore up the paper irritably and started another.

"Come round and see me. I want you."

She had meant to send it by messenger to his rooms,
but now she changed her mind and fully addressed and
stamped it. Posted, he would not get it till the morning ;
that would give her still a few hours' respite. . . .

Montague smiled when he found the little note
amongst his pile of correspondence. He considered that
it was the result of his seeming indiflFerence the previous
afternoon; he thought he had been very clever.

But the letter was unsatisfactory.

"Come round and see me. I want you.'*

He frowned a little over the hurriedly-written line*
He would not go till the afternoon. If she wanted him

8o RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

at all she would be all the more keen for having to wait.
He wondered if she would ring up to ask what was
detaining him. He purposely stayed in all the morning
on the chance. But he was disappointed, and by two
o'clock he was thoroughly impatient and eager to obey
that little summons, after all. He was genuinely in love
with Sonia,

It was a fine afternoon, and he walked part of the
way till his lame leg began to tire, when he stopped
and looked round for a taxi. At the moment there
was not a disengaged one in sight, and as he stood look-
ing up and down the road with slight impatience two
men in uniform came out of a building opposite.

Montague glanced at them casually; then he gave a
tremendous start and clenched his hand over the stick
he carried, moving a quick pace forward incredulously,
for the taller man of the two was Richard Chatterton.

He was laughing and talking with his companion —
a shorter, older man — ^and he looked very well and alert
in his not particularly well-fitting uniform. He did not
see Montague, and in a moment they were lost in the
crowd.

Montague stood staring in the direction they had taken,
with eyes that were blank beneath frowning brows.
Chatterton in khaki! Chatterton enlisted! And as an
ordinary Tommy. A dull anger possessed him.

Supposing Sonia were to get to know this; supposing
she knew already, and had sent for him to say that she
had no further use for him. A frenzy of anxiety con-
sumed him. When at last a taxi came crawling along
through the pale autumn sunshine he got into it with
unusual alacrity and told the man to "drive like the
devil !"

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 8r

Chatterton in khaki! The thing was inconceivable
after all that had happened.

Montague was no fool; he knew perfectly well that
Sonia still cared for Chatterton, but that her own dis-
appointment, carefully nursed by his insinuations, had
for the time being, at any rate, choked all feeling but
resentment and disillusionment

He was a little pale with apprehension when at last
he went into the room where she was waiting for him.
His real anxiety made his greeting doubly sincere and
lover-like :

"My darling, I have only just got your note. I came
as soon as ever I could. . . .'*

He took her hands and bent and kissed them. One
glance at her face had reassured him. When he put
an arm about her she offered no resistance, though she
turned her face away.

"I sent for you because . . . because • . /' her voice
faltered, but she went on bravely. "Yesterday afternoon,
after you left me, something happened, and — ^and I told
Lady Merriam that you and I . . , you and I — were
going to be married. . . .*'

"Sonia . . .'* She held him back gently but de-
terminedly.

"I don't know what made me say it, but , . . but I
was upset — and — oh, I hope you don't mind, that you
don't think it horrid of me."

"Mindl" His face was radiant. She felt a pang of
remorse as she looked at him.

"You know that I ask nothing better than to have you
for my wife. ... I can't believe it. You were so cold
to me yesterday — I was so unhappy when I went away*
Dearest, you won't change your mind?"

"No."

82 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"And you reaUy want to many xne; you really care
for me, after all? . , /'

"I do want to many you."

He did not notice that she had not answered the latter
part of his question ; be thought her averted head meant
adorable shyness ; he bent and kissed her hair just where
it waved above a white temple.

He drew her down to sit beside him on the wide
window seat. She hardly heard Montague speaking to
her; her whole being was concentrated on the effort to
deaden the crowding memories that would not die.

"Sonia — do you love me? . . ."

As in a dream she heard the man at her side ask the
question that Richard had whispered to her that night
of the ball. For a moment she closed her eyes, and
against the dark back;groimd of her lids she seemed to
see him as he had looked when she walked away from
him with old Jardine — the white reproach of his face.

Why think about him? He had never cared for her!
She forced herself to smile.

"If I don't care for you, then I don't care for any-
one in the world.**

Mont^^e was satisfied; he told her he was happier
than he had ever dreamed it possible to be. She drew
a little away from him. "Lady Merriam and I are going
down to Burvale on Saturday. I thought if you came
next week for a few days "

"If! Of course I shall come.'* He kissed the hand
lying so passively in his^

Sonia tried to laugh.

"Yes, of course you will.^ She wondered how she
could ever tolerate to see Montague dowp at Burvale.

Some women are inherently faithful ; to some women
a broken engagement is no return to freedom; Sonia

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

wondered if she would ever get rid of the horrible feel-
ing that Richard would know every time she let this
man kiss hen

"And we will be married — ^when?" Montague asked.

She answered hurriedly:

"Oh, not just yet — ^a little later, perhaps — ^but will you
promise me something, Francis — about — Richard Chat-
terton. ... I never want you to speak about him any
more — I — I never want to hear his name again. It's
— ^it's all over and done with — forgotten!"

Forgotten, with that quiver in her voice? Montague
gave the promise only too eagerly.

"You shall never hear his name from me again, Sonia.
You know he has given up his flat ?"

"Yes — I heard. ... I suppose you don't know where
he has gone? Mr. Jardine said abroad."

Silence — then Montague answered lightly:

"I'm not sure — but I did hear that he had gone to
America; There were creditors, you know — they
been pressing him, and — well. ... I should thiidrit 's
most probable that he has gone to America.'^

CHAPTER VII

IADY MERRIAM wrote to old Jardine; she wrote
with many agitated underlinings, and took six
■^ pages to enlarge upon the appalling fact that
Sonia was engaged to Francis Montague.

"... I didn't quite believe her when she first told
me, but now the man has corroborated it himself. He
has been here this afternoon, all smiles and superiority.
I always hated men with black mustaches and white
teeth.

"He talks about an immediate marriage, but I've put
my foot down, and told Sonia that if she wishes to be
married from my house and with my sanction she must
wait at least three months. She said she didn't intend
to have any fuss, and that a registrar's office was quite
good enough for her. As if anyone really nice ever
married at a registrar's!

"I don't know what has come over the girl. It's
only a few weeks ago that she told me she sh(Mild never
feel properly married without half a dozen bridesmaids
and the *Voice that breathed o'er Eden.' . . . For heaven's
sake, George, can't you do something to prevent it?
And where, in the name of goodness, is that Richard
Chatterton?"

Old Jardine was not a swearing man, but he gave
vent to a very unparliamentary word when he reached
the end of the letter. So Sonia had engaged herself
to Montague! That fact seemed to write finis once
and for all across his hopes and plans.

A hasty marriage at a registrar's would finally put
Chatterton out of the running.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 85

Old Jardine went lunchless in an agitated hunt round
Loudon to discover Chatterton. Nobody seemed to
know anything about him; one or two men who had
been friends of his shrugged their shoulders nonchalantly
and said : "Oh, Chatterton ! ..." in a sort of expressive
voice that seemed to suggest that he had gone under
altogether. Old Jardine fumed inwardly.

He would have liked to climb on to one of the leathern
armchairs in the club and announce the fact at the top
of his voice that Richard Chatterton had gone to serve
his King and country. He wished from the bottom of
his heart that he had never consented to hold his tongue
on the subject ; more than once during the day the truth
nearly escaped him.

It was late afternoon when, returning dejectedly
homewards, he ran into Carter in Regent Street ; Carter,
very smart and a little self-conscious in khaki as old
Jardine caught his arm excitedly.

"Just the man I want. Where's your master? It's
most important that I should see him to-night," he added
testily as the man hesitated. "Damn it all, man, I don't
want to know where he is if you think you're giving
away a state secret by telling me. Just ask him to come
round and see me to-night. Tell him it's very important.
Tell him it's — it's to do with Miss Markham. No,
I'm not going to argue with you, so don't stand here
with your mouth open. I'm in a hurry." And he
was gone before Carter could get one word in edgeways.

"He 11 come," old Jardine told himself with a chuckle.
"He'll come right enough." And so he did. Old Jardine
was in the middle of a bachelor dinner when he heard
Chatterton's voice on the stairs, and the next moment
he was in the room.

86 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"Carter said y^u wanted to see me — about . . . There
is nothing the matter, is there? She's not ill?*'

Old Jardine finished his claret before he answered.

"No, she's not ill — ^unless you'd call it an illness to
be engaged to Montague."

There was a little silence, then: "I don't believe it!"
said Chatterton shortly.

Old Jardine pushed back his chair and rose.

"Very well — it 's a fact, whether you like to believe
it or not. Lady Merriam told me — here's the letter."

He threw it across the table.

Chatterton picked it up and read it through without
comment.

He looked very big and manly as he stood there, the
light from the shaded globe over the table falling on
his face and broad shoulders; he was a little pale as
he handed the letter back.

"Well?" said old Jardine, rather sharply.

Chatterton shrugged his shoulders with rather over-
done indifference.

"It only proves what I said all along," he answered
constrainedly. "That she never cared a hang about me.
• . ." He paused a moment, as if to look back across
the short months of his engagement, then: "Is this all
you wanted to see me about?" he asked.

"All!" echoed old Jardine irascibly. "Isn't it enough?
Confound the fellow — and what are you going to do
about it?"

Chatterton half smiled.

"Do ? What can I do ? Nothing, of course. She has
made her choice. ... I hope she'll be happy." He
spoke disjointedly. "Montague 's fond of her — ^he isn't
half a bad fellow, . . ."

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 87

Old Jardine brought his fist down on the table with
such a bang that the glasses jingled.

"And you mean to tell me that you 're going to stand
by and see her married to Montague."

Chatterton swung round with a passionate gesture.

"Grood God, man! How can I prevent it? It 's no
longer my concern. If she prefers Montague . . ."

"I'll never believe it."

Chatterton hunched his shoulders; there was a line
of pain about his mouth; old Jardine was a thousand
miles away from guessing how this calm vivisection of
his feelings hurt and stung.

A vivid imagination spared Richard Chatterton no
detail of all that this meant: a himdred little scenes and
memories came crowding back to him — Sonia down at
Burvale ; Sonia in Lady Merriam's drawing-room ; Sonia
walking in the park; Sonia at the theater; and always
with that other man beside her, in his place.

And it was his own fault; somehow that knowledge
made everything so much harder.

Old Jardine was speaking again.

"And now there is something I want to ask you on
my own account."

"Well?" Richard answered vaguely, as if he were
hardly listening. "What is it?"

Old Jardine pushed plates and glasses aside, clearing
a space on the table before him; he swung round in
his seat, looking up at Chatterton with rather fierce eyes.

"I want you to let me oflF a promise I made to you
a night or two ago."

"A promise?" Chatterton knit his brows. "What
promise ?"

"When I was In your rooms. Will, you let me off,
my boy?"

88 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

Chatterton flushed. His eyes were a little hurt and
angry.

"You mean . . . about this?" He touched the sleeve
of his rough coat.

"Yes. ... If Sonia knew . • •"

Qiatterton burst out angrily.

"Do you think I want to sneak back into favor under
cover of a uniform?" he asked. "Good heavens! What
do you take me for?"

"I'm trying to help you both, and if "

"You can't help. The thing's ended and done with.
I know you mean kindly, but, for God's sake, leave it
alone. I've cut my own throat, and I'm not going to
whine about it. If you think it doesn't hurt . . ." He
stopped abruptly.

After a moment he laughed without much mirth.

"Queer how things pan out, isn't it? ... If anyone

had told me all this six weeks ago " He stretched

his long arms and smothered a sigh.

Old Jardine was watching him curiously.

"I met Sonia in the Park two days ago. She had
heard that you were leaving London. She asked if I
knew where you were going."

No answer.

"If I had told her — well, Montague would have been
sent to the rightabout, Dick, my boy. . , ."

A little silence; then: "So you won't let me off my
promise?" asked old Jardine again.

Chatterton had been standing staring down at the fire ;
he half-turned.

"What would you think of me if I said 'Yes'?" he
asked rather grimly.

Old Jardine shook his head.

"You'd think I was more of a skunk and a shirker

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 89

than ever before, wouldn't you?" Chatterton queried.
"And so I should be. Oh, for heaven's sake, let 's drop
the subject, and give me a cigar!"

He selected one from the box old Jardine silently
pushed across the table and lit it with careful precision.

"Suppose we shan't get many of these out there," he
said with a wry smile. He threw the burnt match into
the fire. "Do you know, Jardine, that I believe I'm
looking forward to having a cut at those beggars,
after all.**

CHAPTER VIII

OLD Jardine found, after all, that he would not
be able to go down to Burvale with Lady Mer-
riam and Sonia.

He had arranged to do so, but a note from Richard
Chatterton on Saturday morning was responsible for
a telephone message to Lady Merriam. . . .

"I'm really exceedingly sorry. Til follow you down
by the afternoon train. . . . Oh, is that you. Miss Mark-
ham ? I thought it was Lady Merriam( . . ."

He heard Soma's laugh across the wires.

"She's too busy to come to the 'phone, so she sent
me. Can't you really come with us? We'd counted
on you to take the tickets and look after us all."

There was a sort of strained note in her merriment;
old Jardine rubbed his chin in perturbation; if only he
could tell her why he could not accompany them.

"Fact is, I 've just had an urgent call — ^business — oh,
yes, of course, business," he explained hurriedly. "Noth-
ing else would have prevented me from keeping my
word. What! you don't believe me!"

"I know what it means when a man pleads 'business,' "
she teased,

"About the same as when a woman pleads a head-
ache, eh?" he retorted, chuckling.

She laughed.

"It's very mean of you, all the same. Can't you put
the horrid man off, whoever he is?"

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 91

"He isn't horrid"

"I'm sure he is. Tell him from me that I think
he's a perfectly detestable person to take you away
when we want yon-'*

"Shall I really tdl him that?"

"Of course . . ."

"I don't think I will; he might think that you really
meant it."

"So I do," she declared.

There was a little silence ; old Jardine wondered what
on earth he should say next. Sonia spoke again; there
was a little anxious thrill now in her voice.

"But you are really coming to Burvale, aren't you?"

"Indeed I am coming, and perhaps I shall stay longer
than you want me to stay. What — ^are you going?"

"I must ; Lady Merriam wants me. . . . Good-by — we
shall see you down for dinner to-night, then?"

"Yes— without fail."

Old Jardine hung up the receiver and wiped his hot
forehead.

Supposing she had asked him with whom his "busi-
ness" appointment had been, what would he have said?
He thought of the hurriedly-scribbled note he had re-
ceived from Richard.

"We are leaving town to-day for our camp in Surrey.
I know nothing for certain, but there are persistent
rumors going round that this is only a sort of pre-
liminary canter for greater things in the immediate
future. We leave Victoria about eleven in the morn-
ing; can you manage to be there? I shan't get leave
again easily, I suppose, and there's something I want you
to do for me. Be a sport and turn up. — R. C."

And, of course^ old Jardine went ; he was at Victoria
fully half an hour before the time, pacing up and down.

92 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

eagerly scanning each khaki-dad figure — ^and there were
many of them!

A harassed official told him that he had no idea from
which platform the men would be leaving; every train
was a special that day, he grumbled.

Old Jardine began to get hot and red- faced; he was
horribly afraid of missing Chatterton altogether; several
times he rushed breathlessly after some uniformed figure
that looked a little taller and less professional than the
rest, only to be disappointed; it was long past eleven
when he ran smack into Richard at the barrier.

He gripped him with both hands, as if afraid the
earth might open and, swallow him up; he began to talk
nineteen to the dozen*

"I 've been here three-quarters of an hour — infernally
badly-managed station; shall complain to the general
manager. Thought I was never going to find you. . . .
What is it you want me to do ? I had the very devil of
a job to excuse myself to Lady Merriam and get here."

"Lady Merriam?"

"Yes — ^we were going down to Burvale together to-
day, you know-^Sonia too. I 'm following by the after-
noon train."

A young woman — ^little more than a g^rl she looked
— clinging to the arm of a brown-faced boy in uniform,
had suddenly burst into hysterical tears. Old Jardine
turned his back and shook his head sorrowfully.

"Most distressing — ^most distressing!" he said again.

Chatterton did not answer. He was looking down the
long, crowded platform with far-away eyes.

Burvale ! What memories had not the name conjured
for him. A sudden picture of the old house and beauti-
ful grounds was flashed to him; and Sonia would be
there — ^and Montague . . .

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 93

A spasm of jealousy shook him. Old Jardine saw
his face quiver as if with sudden pain.

He laid a kindly hand on the young man's arm.

"I'll look after her, my boy — don't you fret; and I'll
see she doesn't make a muddle of her life. Trust old
Jardine. . . ."

He coughed violently to hide his sudden emotion.

The distressful tears of the girl behind him — ^the whole
busy scene of bustle and departure was affecting him
as it must affect everyone who looks on and realizes
its true import.

Chatterton certainly was not immediately going to the
front, but it was none the less a farewell, in spite of
bursts of laughter and rough jokes and rousing cheers.

The men were filing through the barrier now, drag-
ging their bundles. Some were laughing and singing,
with no serious thought of what lay ahead.

Chatterton roused himself with a little sigh and turned
again to old Jardine.

"I only wanted to ask you to take this for me. Don't
tliink it's sentimental rubbish, but I may not see you
again before we go to France — ^if they send us, that
is — and I thought you wouldn't mind taking it and keep-
ing it till — ^well, till I come back. It's looking rather
a long way ahead, I know, but supposing — only suppos-
ing — ^my number's up " He laughed a little, almost

apologetically, it seemed. "Give it to Sonia, will you?
Give it to her yourself — ^that's all, and thanks eternally."

He gripped old Jardine's hand hard, passing a package
into it.

"Good-by ... I '11 drop you a line whenever I can."

He was gone before there was time for a reply, and
a sudden mistiness in old Jardine's eyes shut out his tall
figure.

94 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

A stout, kindly-voiced woman was cheering the weep-
ing girl.

"Lor' bless you, don't take on sol" she was saying.
"Anyone would think they was going straight out to
Germany, to see you ! And them going no farther than
a few miles down the Une." She looked up and caught
old Jardine's sympathetic regard.

"They was only married a fortnight ago," she
apologized, with a little kindly smile. "And she's only
seventeen," she added, slipping an arm round the girl.

Old Jardine was fiunbling in his pocket; he fished
up something and pressed it into the girl's hand.

"You ought to be proud of him, my girl, proud of
him!" he said in that fierce tone that meant something
so very different. "He's doing his duty like a man,
and that's more than we can all say."

He walked off, scowling fiercely above his kindly eyes.

He glanced at his watch, and was surprised to find
that it was not yet half-past eleven; he made a 'rapid
calculation.

Gad! by a bit of luck he could catch the train from
Euston that Lady Merriam and Sonia were going down
by after all. He dashed out into the station yard and
hailed a taxicab; he did not want four hours of his
own company in London.

"Euston, and drive like the devil!"

When he had recovered his breath somewhat he looked
curiously at the little package Chatterton had given him.

It was enclosed in a large envelope and felt bulky;
the flap was sealed and the inscription was simply : "Miss
Markham."

Old Jardine stowed it away in an inner pocket. Please
God, he would never be called upon to deliver it ; plea?<*
God, the boy would come back safe and sound.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 95

The Euston train was already signaled out when old
Jardine rushed on to the platform; he waved his stick
excitedly to attract the attention of the guard; a girl
leanii^ from one of the carriage windows, looked up
and saw him.

It was Sonia. She gave a little cry.

"Oh, Mr. Jardine!"

The train had begun to move slowly. Between them
she and Lady Merriam hauled him into the carriage,
panting and crimson in the face.

Lady Merriam began to scold.

"You 'II drop dead one day when you *re doing that.
• . . You ought to know better at your time of life. I
remember you doing the same thing years ago, when
. . . oh, well!" she broke off, flushing a little at the
youthful romantic memory she had so inadvertently re-
called.

Old Jardine was recovering in gasps.

"I knew I could just do it, so I made a dash. They
went off sooner than I expected they would. . . . Im-
posing sight — ^most imposing."

For the first time he realized that Montague was not
one of the party ; he wiped his hot face and put his hat
up on the rack.

"What was an imposing sight T' Sonia asked without
much interest; she was looking out of the window at
the dreary rows of houses and back gardens.

Last time she came this way she had been with Richard.

Old Jardine started at her question. He teoked
agitatedly at Lady Merriam; there was a sort of strug-
gling conviction in her eyes.

He answered mechanically : 'T went to see one of the
battalions off at Victoria — oh, no, that wasn't the busi-
ness I told you about, my dear " this last vtry quickly,

96 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

as Sonia turned. "But I was near Victoria, and I saw
the crowd, so I went into the station, and there they
were, going off, as fine a lot of boys as you could wish
to see, bless 'em! . . . Gad! if I were only ten years
younger."

Sonia had turned her head away again.

She thought of the beautiful home to which the train
was fast carrying them, and suddenly she knew that she
dreaded arriving there.

She had wearied of London and wished to escape from
it, but now she felt that this return to Burvale would
be like visiting a grave where some loved one lay buried.

It had been Richard's home before it had been hers;
and she had thought that soon they would share it to-
gether.

It was so eloquent of him; he had told her so many
little stories of his boyhood there — ^he seemed so irre-
vocably mixed up with it alL

There was the old oak tree where he had cut his
name with his first pocket-knife ; the hollow above where
he had found an ovfVs nest; the stream into which he
had fallen, and from which he had been fished out
by his father to receive his first thrashing; the loft above
the stables where he had hidden to play truant from
school; the old loose box where his favorite horse had
been stabled. . . .

Montague in no way fitted into the picture; his
presence there would seem like an intrusion. . . .

Across the carriage Lady Merriam asked old Jardin^
an apparently casual question.

"Did you see anyone you knew amongst the soldiers?
Were there any men in the battalion you knew?"

Old Jardine grew crimson from chin to brow; he

RICIJARD CHATTERTON, V.C 97

cursed himself silently for a voluble old idiot ; he shook
his head vigorously.

"No— no— of course not; why diould there be?"

Lady Merriam glanced at Sonia^ but the girl was not
listening.

With a sudden little determined gesture her ladyship
drew a writing-tablet from her bag, wrote something on
one of the pages, tore it out, and handed it across to
old Jardine.

He looked from it to her resolute face, and hesitated ;
then he unfolded the paper and put on his glasses to
read the penciled words.

A comical look of dismay crossed his face, his jaw
dropped.

Lady Merriam laughed maliciously.

She had written : "Have you ever heard of Ananias ?"
He ought to have remembered that no secret was safe
within reach of her ladyship.

Old Jardine had hardly closed his eyes after the ex-
cellent luncheon at Burvale before the library door
opened to admit a swirl of petticoats and closed again
determinedly. He sat up as if he had been shot. ^

Lady Merriam was advancing upon him like a whirl-
wind. She hurled her question at him.

"When did Richard Chatterton enlist? What's he

enlisted in, and why haven't you told me before?" she
demanded.

Old Jardine tried to temporize.

"I don't know what you are talking about; Chatter-
ton's name hasn't been mentioned between us in connec-
tion with the army. . . ."

98 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

She snapped her fingers lightly.

"Don't argue. Just tell me the truth if you don't
want me to rush off and bring Sonia here to drag it
out of you."

He got to his feet in dismay.

"If you tell Sonia I'll never forgive you. I gave
Richard my word of honor . . •" He stopped breath-
lessly.

Lady Merriam laughed.

"I knew it was true," she said triumphantly.

Old Jardine sat down again helplessly.

"I'm a blundering old fool," he said savagely. "I
make a vow not to mention Richard's name, and out
it comes!"

"Got a commission, of course?"

"No, he 's a private; and his man, Carter, is in the
same battalion. . . ."

"Good I" Lady Merriam clapped her hands delightedly.
"I always knew the right stuff was in him. George, if
Sonia knew this. . . ."

"But she mustn't know! Can't you see that she
mustn't?" he demanded irately. "Richard said it would
look like trying to sneak back into favor under cover
of a uniform, and, gad! the .boy is right. I wanted to
tell her, but he wouldn't hear of it It 's my opinion that
if she marries Montague "

"She won't marry Montague."

Old Jardine stared.

"Well, I suppose you know best," he submitted after
a moment. "But she's got his ring, and he's telling
everyone that they're going to be married almost
immediately."

"Let him. Who cares?" Lady Merriam dragged for-
ward a chair and sat down. "Oh," she said suddenly,

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V,C 99

"if only Richard had gone before, all this trouble would
have been saved."

Old Jardine growled, "Better late than never." He
looked at her anxiously. ^*And you swear 3rou won't
let Sonia know?" he asked.

She dismissed the question as unworthy of an answer.

"But she '11 find out for herself. These sort of things"^
always come out." She knitted her brows. "George, do
you think that Montague knows?"

"No — I should say not; Dick Chatterton said no-
body knew."

"Humph!" Lady Merriam drummed her fingers on
the polished arms of her chair. "What a muddle ! Worse
than we made of our affairs years ago, eh?"

Old Jardine shook his head; he was staring into the
fire and did not answer.

Lady Merriam spoke suddenly:

"Supposing Dick gets killed, . . . Oh, you needn't
jump so" — as old Jardine made an angry gesture. "It
is quite possible that he may be killed; better fellows
than he have died by the hundreds. What do you sup-
pose Sonia will say to us — when she knows — for not
having told her?"

Old Jardine rubbed his head in perplexity.

"I gave Richard my word, and I mean to keep it,**
he said.

Lady Merriam rose exasperatedly. "Montague is
coming down to-morrow, and before we know where
we are, they'll be married. Oh, don't talk to me — I've
no patience with you; you ought to have refused
to promise anything. It was your plain duty to let Sonia
know. . . ." She flounced indignantly away.

Old Jardine went back to his old position with the

909520

100 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

handkerchief over his face, but sleep refused to visit
him.

Where was Sonia, he wondered? The house seemed
very quiet — very different from his last visit here, when
Chatterton had brought half a dozen young fellows down
with him, and they had kept the place alive from morn-
ing till night, and then till morning again.

He hoisted himself out of his chair and walked to the
door; Sonia was just passing across the hall.

"I was looking for you — ^the house seems so quiet,"
she said.

She spoke with a little hysterical catch in her voice;
she had not dreamed that this home-coming v/ould be
so painful. At every turn something reminded her of
Richard Chatterton.

She slipped her hand through old Jardine's arm; she
went on talking as if she were trying to talk herself
into forgetfulness.

"I'd a great mind to let this house again; it's so
big. One wants a large house party to make it at all
cheerful."

The front door was standing open. They walked out
into the porch.

The afternoon was closing in, gray and a little chilly.
There was something depressing in the big, empty garden
and wide, desertied lawn.

Sonia shivered a little.

"Oh," she burst out suddenly, "I feel as if someone
were walking over my grave. Have you ever had that
feeling? As if something unpleasant were going to
happen."

"Nonsense. . . . You're tired and fanciful. We'll
go and make up a big fire and find two comfy aimr
chairs,"

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C loi

Old Jardine led her back to the cozy library; the
fire had flared up now into a cheerful blaze^ the glow of
the flames leapt and danced over the book-lined walls
and the heavy oak beams in the ceiling.

This room was most vividly associated with Chatter-
ton to old Jardine.

He could remember Richard, standing, back to the
fireplace, yawning away in his careless, nonchalant
fashion, to the circle of young fellows about him.

He had been so proud of his home ; he had so gloried
in being its master; there was something horribly sad
in the thought that he might never be there any more.

So many sons of noble houses had gone since that
fateful August; so many promising lives had been cut
down by the indiscriminating sickle of Death.

And Sonia had memories too — ^memories which would
not be shut out as she sat there in the low, big chair.

There had been one evening — so long ago now it
seemed, before her father died

She had hardly known Richard then, but he had come
into the room and startled her, and she had dropped the
book she had been reading.

Both he and she had groped to recover it, and their
hands had met . . .

It was from that moment that she had first known
that she cared for him — from that moment that his com-
ing and going had held some special meaning for her;
she forced herself to look at old Jardine and smile.

"We 're not very cheerful, are we? I wish- " she

stopped as a bell pealed through the house. Sonia started
nervously; she half rose from her chair and sat back
again.

"I wonder if that is Francis ?" she said ; her voice was
jerky; a little nervous flush tinged her cheeks.

102 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

There was a strange voice in the hall ; a servant fiunf^
the door wide.

"Mr. Courtenay "

A young man with a boyish, smiling face strode into
the room.

Sonia jimiped up with a little cry of pleasure.

"Bertie ! How nice to see you ! How did you know
I was here?"

Both her hands were in his; he was gripping them
in hearty, delighted fashion.

"They told me down in the village, so I thought I
must just run along at once and have a look at you,
as I'm off to London on Monday. . . ."

'^'London?"

"Yes, I'm going to join something at last. The doctor
wouldn't pass me before ; said I'd outgrown my strength,
or some such rot; but I've been feeding up and lying
low ever since, and now they say I'm fit. . . ." He
was looking at old Jardine inquiringly.

Sonia apologized and introduced them.

"This is Bertie Courtenay — Mr. Jardine. . . . Beitie
and I are old friends," she explained. "So you needn't
be shocked that we call each other by Christian names,
and I'm years older than he is."

Courtenay laughed.

"Glad to meet you again, sir," he said. "I don't
suppose you remember me, do you? But I remember
your name well. I met you a year or two ago when
you were down here with Chatterton. By the way —
how is the dear old fellow, Sonia? I haven't heard
anything of him for ages!"

For a moment nobody answered. The smile of an-
ticipation on young Courtenay's face died; he looked at
Jardine a little anxiously.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 103

"What's the matter? There's nothing the matter
with Chatterton, is there?"

Sonia forced a laugh.

"There 's nothing the matter — I believe he is on his
way to America, that *s all."

"America!" Young Courtenay echoed the word
blankly. He looked hard at the girl's averted face.
Suddenly he caught her hand, forcing her round to meet
his gaze.

"What's up, Sonia? You haven't quarreled, have
you? Why, you thought the world of him."

The words were blurted out with boyish tactlessness.
Old Jardine turned away. The situation was altogether
beyond him. It was Sonia who explained.

"We've agreed to differ, that's all," she said, trying
to speak lightly. "I — I'm not engaged to him any
longer."

Young Courtenay was still holding her hand ; he spread
her slim fingers on his broad palm and looked at Mon-
tague's ring.

"But — ^but you're still wearing this," he said, touch-
ing it lightly,

"Oh — oh!" said Sonia. She wrenched her hand free
and ran from the room.

Courtenay stood staring after her blankly: when the
door closed he swung round to where old Jardine stood,
very red in the face,

"What the deuce " he began indignantly.

Old Jardine cut him short.

"Tut, tut ! Don't bluster, my boy ! It 's a very pain-
ful situation, very painful. Miss Markham broke her
engagement with Chatterton, and is now engaged to an-
other man. . ."

104 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

What !*' The boy's eyes were round with amazement*
Sonia engaged to another man! I don't believe it"

Old Jardine shrugged his shoulders.

"But — ^but she thought the world of him only last
summer," Courtenay went on blankly. "If ever a girl
was dead nuts on a man she was on Dick, and now you
say she has got engaged to someone else?"

"She has — 3. man named Montague ; he 's coming down
here to-morrow, I believe."

"Well, ril be damned!" Young Courtenay collapsed
on to the nearest chair.

"It 's distressing — ^most distressing," old Jardine ad-
mitted. "I take it that Dick Chatterton was a friend
of yours!"

"Rather! The best fellow in the world!" The boy's
voice was enthusiastic. "What's he gone to America
for? I should have thought he'd have been at the
front weeks ago . • ."

"Ah — er — ^yes; we all thought so," said old Jardine
lamely. "But the fact is — er . . ." he floundered help-
lessly.

Courtenay frowned.

"What's all the mystery about?" he demanded trucu-
lently. "Has Chatterton done anything disgraceful? Is
\e wanted by the police, or anything like that?"

"No— no . . ."

Old Jardine paced the room in perplexity. Suddenly
he turned and came back to where the boy sat staring
before him with anger in his eyes.

"Look here, my lad," he said bluntly. "You may as
well hear the truth from me, and done with it. I dare
say I shall tell it better than most people, seeing that
Dick is a favorite of mine. . . . The fact is — ^well, the
fact is, Soma's been running her head against a brick

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 105

wall, so to speak. . . . Dick didn't rush off to joiti the
colors, and she seems to have thought he ought to have
done. Anyway, one or two fatheaded old busybodies
made it their business to condemn him for it, and it got
round to her. You know what women are — ^and it hurt
her pride. She's patriotic to the backbone, is Sonia,
and she couldn't tolerate being engaged tQ a slacker
. . . so "

"Who's a slacker?"

Old Jardine moved back a step.

"I don't say that anybody is; but that is what people
were saying about Chatterton. I was one of them my-
self, and very sorry I've been for it ever since. And
— well, the long and the short of it is the engagement
is off, and — ^and — ^now they say that Dick has gone tp . -
America."

"And has he?"

Old Jardine spread his hands deprecatingly.

"Don't ask me . . . I'm not his keeper."

Young Courtenay sprang to his feet excitedly,

"I'll bet you a fiver he hasn't; I'll bet you a fiver
that he hasn't gone any farther than France! There's
nothing of the funk about him. If he didn't go when
the war broke out, he had a jolly good reason. . . ."
He stopped and went on again: "I say, it's a rotten
shame of Sonia to have chucked him, isn't it?"

Old Jardine did not answer, and young Courtenay
burst out again:

"I don't care a hang what people say; I don't care
a hang what Sonia thinks . . . Chatterton never
funked !"

Old Jardine held out his hand.

"Shake!" he said delightedly. "Shake I— er

. * • that is to say . • 4" He stopped short, realizing

io6 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

with horror how nearly he had been to extending the
secret to a third person.

He was more than relieved when Lady Merriam came
into the room; he contented himself with whispering to
Courtenay not to mention Chattertion's name again.

"Not in front of the ladies, anyway," he added.

Lady Merriam tried to persuade Courtenay to stay to
dinner, but he refused. He was a little angry-looking;
it was not long before he rose to go.

"Wait and see Sonia," Lady Merriam urged, but he
refused almost rudely.

'Don't trouble her to come," he said gruffly.

'Come to dinner to-morrow, then," Lady Merriam
urged. "I'm sure Sonia will be pleased. . . . No, I
won't take any refusal. I shall expect you at seven."

Old Jardine followed the boy into the hall.

"You mustn't take what I've told you too much to
heart, you know," he said, a little anxiously. "Sonia is
a charming girl— charming, and no doubt she had the
very best reasons for . . ."

"Women are all the same," young Courtenay cut in.
gloomily. "All over you one day, and the next you can.
go to the wall."

He walked away, thinking bitterly of the, vicar's young-
est daughter, who had given him the cold shoulder for
the sake of a man in the Naval Brigade.

"It's only the dashed uniform she likes!" he told
himself as he let the long carriage gate slam rather
unnecessarily. "Wait till I get mine — I'll show her!"

"A nice boy, that — ^very nice boy!" old Jardine said
when he went back to Lady Merriam. "He 's a stanch
friend, too! Furious when he heard that Sonia had
thrown Chatterton over. I wouldn't like to answer for

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 107

him when he meets Montague here to-morrow night!**
He chuckled, as if he anticipated something pleasant
"He knows Dick, then?"

"Known him for years ; knew him when he lived here,
before old Markham bought the place. Nice boy — ^very
nice boy indeed!"

"Well, I hope he'll make himself agreeable to-morrow
if he comes," said Lady Merriam briskly. "Goodness
knows, we don't want long faces round the table. Ton
my word, I 'm beginning to feel quite depressed already.
If things go on like this we shall all be rushing out with
open arms to meet Montague when he comes."

But, as a matter of fact, nobody stirred from the
fire when the wheels of the car were heard in the drive
the following afternoon.

It was a wretched day, pouring with rain, and cold.

"Sleep and eat — eat and sleep ; that's all one can do,""
Lady Merriam said comfortably, as she snuggled down
into the biggest chair she could find after lunch. "And
don't wake me on any pretext whatever," she admonished
Sonia. "Dear me! church bells again! Do they have
service here all day long?"

She was asleep before anyone answered her, and
Sonia went over to the window and looked out at the
dripping garden.

There were great puddles at the sides of the well-
kept drive; a few late chrysanthemums were weighted
with wet to the ground; she turned away with a little
shiver.

What must it be like in the trenches, she wondered f
Surely out there dangers and difficulties were of sufiicient
magnitude without their being added to by rain and
mud.

She looked from Lady Merriam to old Jardine, who*

tdS RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

was snoring in a chair on the opposite side of the fire-
place, and a little smile crossed her face.

It seemed impossible that these two had once been
young and romantic; impossible that old Jardine had
once been very miserable indeed because Lady Merriam
would have none of him. She had heard the story so
many times from Lady Merriam's own lips, and her
ladyship never failed to add:

"But Jardine was a fine-looking man in those days,
remember! I might have done worse; I might have
done far worse." And then she would sigh with mo-
mentary sentimentality, and yawn, and wonder what
there was for dinner.

"Some day I shall be middle-aged and fat, like she
is," Sonia thought as she stood there, listening to the
steady downpour of rain outside and the unmusical
snoring of old Jardine within.

"Some day I shall be quite satisfied to sit by the
fire and have forty winks, and let my daughter amuse
herself as I am supposed to be doing now. . . ."

Old Jardine roused in his chair a little and half sat
up as a bell pealed through the house. Sonia stood
irresolute.

She did not want to go into the hall to meet Mon-
tague, but even that would surely be preferable to re-
ceiving him here in front of other people.

She knew she could not tolerate being kissed beneath
the kindly-quizzical eyes of old Jardine. She went
swiftly into the hall.

Montague had just entered. He was followed by a
•servant carrying his traveling coat and suit-case. His
rather somber face cleared when he saw Sonia.

"I hoped you would have been at the station . . . are
-you quite well, sweetheart?"

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 109

He took her hand, but Sonia was thankful that the
presence of the servant prevented further demonstration.

"Quite well — ^but lazyK' she told him, smiling. "Mr.
Jardine and Lady Merriam are both asleep. Isn't it
an awful day?"

"Abominable!" He shrugged his shoulders distaste-
fully. "I say, Sonia, I hope you won't expect me to
live down here in the winter; I couldn't exist in the
country with weather like this. . . ."

A little resentful flush tinged her cheeks; she drew
her hand away.

"We needn't discuss that now, need we?" she said
lightly; she walked back into the library.

Old Jardine was wide awake now; he rose from his
chair rather reluctantly to shake hands. Lady Merriam
never stirred, though to a close observer it would have
been apparent that her eyes were rather too tightly closed
to be natural. After a few moments* desultory conversa-
tion Montague went off to his room ; Sonia sat down on
a low stool beside old Jardine.

Such a little while ago that he had played gooseberry
to her and — another man; and now . . .

Lady Merriam sat up.

"I was awake all the time," she said tartly, meeting
Soma's surprised gaze. "By the way, did I tell you
that I asked young Courtenay to diimer to-night?"

"No . . ." But Soma's voice sounded relieved rather
than annoyed. "And is he coming?"

"He wouldn't say definitely, but I think he will."

And an hour or two later, when Sonia came down
to the drawing-room, she found Courtenay there waiting.

His manner was a little stiff as he greeted her, his
face a little red, but he gripped her hand with bear-like
affection.

no RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

"I thought I'd come; hope you don't mind," he said
awkwardly.

"I'm very pleased," she answered. She looked at
him with timid appeal. "Of course, you're angry with
me about — about Mr. Qiatterton, aren't you, Bertie?"

His boy's face softened.

"Oh, Sonia, he was such a ripping fine diap!" he
said, almost mournfully.

She looked away from him.

"You don't understand," she said, a little breathlessly,
"and I can't explain." Montague walked into the room.

He had scrambled through his toilet, hoping to get
a few moments alone with Sonia. He had not kissed
her yet. Old Jardine had not given him the least chance.
His eager face grew a little sullen when he saw Courte-
nay. He acknowledged Sonia's introduction rather
curtly.

It was perfectly clear to Courtenay that this was the
man whom he had made up his mind to hate. How the
dickens could Sonia prefer him to Dick Chatterton?
Hang it all, the chap limped, and . . . Courtenay felt
a little ashamed of himself for the thought. He turned
to Montague rather more pleasantly.

"Been to the front?" he asked.

Montague shook his head.

"No — ^unfortunately."

Young Courtenay fidgeted.

"I only thought — ^being lame — ^you know ** he ex-
plained awkwardly.

"No — it was due to an accident; the very wedc the
war broke out! Rotten luck, wasn't it?"

The boy made no answer; there was an awkward
pause; suddenly:

"What do you think about the war?" he asked ab-

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C in

ytiptly, with an evident attempt at making conversation.
"Is it going to be over by Easter?"

Montague shrugged his shoulders.

"Doubtful— extremely doubtful, I should imagine.
From all accounts we are still pouring men into France.
There'll be some tough fighting when the fine weather
comes."

"Wish I had had the luck to go. They wouldn't take
me, but I'm having another shot at it to-morrow. A
friend of mine — chap in a battalion attached to the Irish
Guards — is off to France on Wednesday. He had hardly
any training; except in a volunteer-corps two or
three years ago, but you'd hardly think that enough,
would you? Lucky beggar — I'd give something to be
with him. ..."

"Who's a lucky beggar?" inquired old Jardine at the
door.

He came into the room very smiling and picturesque ;
he was wearing a velveteen dinner jacket which Sonia
always particularly admired. He joined the little group
on the hearthrug.

"Who's a lucky beggar?" he asked again.

"Friend of mine in the Irish Guards," Courtenay ex-
plained. "Only joined a week or so back, and they're
off to France on Wednesday . . ."

"What !" the exclamation escaped old Jardine sharply ;
the smile had faded on his cheery face. "Off to the
front — ^what battalion?"

"I believe it's the Third. I'm not sure, though." He
looked at the old man interestedly. "Know anyone in
it?" he asked.

But old Jardine did not answer; he was thinking of
Qiatterton as he had last seen him on the platform at
Victoria . . . how he had said: "In case we should go

IJ2 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

>f course we may not! — but if we should — ^and I
never come back. . . /'

And now he was going, perhaps to meet his death,
and Sonia did not know — Sonia still believed him a
coward. • • •

CHAPTER IX

IT was Lady Merriam who first noticed old Jardlne's
abstraction during dinner that night; she had not
been in the room earlier in the evening when young
Courtenay had been talking, and knew nothing of the
fact that Richard Chatterton's battalion was ordered
abroad.

With her usual cheeriness she tried to rouse him.

"What's the matter, George?" she asked, looking
down the long table at him. "I always call him
'George,' " she explained, seeing young Courtenay's
glance of surprise. "I knew him years ago, when he
was about your age. Quite a nice boy he was then, I
assure you," she went on laughingly.

Old Jardine tried to laugh.

"Am I looking so disagreeable?" he said apologetically.
"Well, well, we can't always be laughing, can we?"

"You've nothing to look disagreeable about," Mon-
tague chimed in. "A wealthy bachelor — ^without a care
in the world! I can't imagine any position more en-
viable."

Old Jardine looked over the top of his gold-rimmed
glasses.

"Your imagination is not very vivid, then," he said
rather curtly.

Sonia, who was sitting beside old Jardine, laid an
affectionate hand on his arm.

"Don't notice what Francis says," she said coaxingly.

114 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"You're a dear, and nothing else matters. But why are
you so quiet?"

Old Jardine looked down at her with a sort of sadness.

"There's someone walking over my grave/* he said.
"Or perhaps it is that I'm dreading that I shall be
called upon to walk over someone else's."

"Heavens 1" said Lady Merriam tragically.

Sonia had paled a little.

"Oh, Mr. Jardine, what a horrid thing to say!" she
objected.

I know what he means," struck in young Courtenay.
It's when you get a sort of squiggly feeling down your
spine. I had it last night when I heard that the Guards
were oS to the front It seems different somehow when
you know chaps in the regiment, doesn't it, sir?" he
appealed to Jardine.

Montague frowned.

"Surely there are other topics besides this depressing
war?" he said.

"I don't find the war at all depressing," Sonia an-
swered. "It's the most wonderful, greatest thing that's
ever happened in all the world. I'm never tired of
hearing about it and reading about it "

"You wait till you've lost a friend or someone out
there," said Courtenay, nodding his head wisely. "Thatll
make all the difference, Sonia. There doesn't seem
anything very grand or wonderful about it when some-
one you've known all your life is finished off by a
German bullet, or "

Lady Merriam clapped her hands to her ears.

"Stop, stop!" she ordered peremptorily. "You give
me the horrors, Mr. Courtenay. How on earth can we
digest our dinner if you will talk about those horrible
Huns?"

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 115

Courtenay laughed rather awkwardly; he was young
and very much in earnest; he subsided into silence.

"But you were quite right, my boy, quite right," old
Jardine told him afterwards when the three men were
left to their cigars. "It does make all the diiference
psrhen you've lost someone out there, or when you're
afraid of losing someone . . .*' He broke off with a
heavy sigh.

"Have you any particular friends at the front?" asked
Montague carelessly.

He was lolling back in his chair, casting glances at
his immaculate reflection in a long mirror opposite; as
he spoke he raised his hand and smoothed the back of
his sleek head.

Old Jardine noticed the little action with a sort of
disgust. Montague's eyes traveled to him. "I haven't
heard you mention anyone in particular," he said again.

"No," answered old Jardine rather shortly, "I haven't
mentioned anyone in particular . . ." There was a sort
of subtlety in his voice; Montague colored slightly.

Was it possible that the old idiot was talking at him,
he wondered? And did it mean that Jardine knew that
Richard Chatterton had enlisted?

He blew a cloud of smoke into the air and watched
it dissolve.

"Fortunately I have no friends out at the front —
none that count, that is,'* he said.

Old Jardine tossed his cigar stump firewards.

"How about those who don't count ?" he asked bluntly.

There was a little pause; Montague waved his hand
airily.

"Those! oh, well, their name is legion, naturally,"
he laughed.

ii6 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

Old Jardine grunted. He pushed back his chair and
rose.

"Shall we join the ladies?" he asked.

Courtenay was only too ready. He had taken a violent
dislike to Montague already. He shrugged his shoulders
as he followed old Jardine across the hall.

Lady Merriam was busily winding khaki-colored wool
from a skein which Sonia was holding. Young Courte-
nay went up to her eagerly.

"Let me do that ! I'm a dabster at it ; the mater winds
tons and tons of the stuif. Are you knitting socks?"
he inquired interestedly.

"This will be the twenty-seventh pair," answered Lady
Merriam, with pride. "I've beaten Sonia; she's only
made eighteen."

"I never could work quickly," the girl defended her-
self, "but if one could take the will for the deed, I
should have made a pair for every man in the British
Army by this time. . . ."

"I can never understand why you don't buy them,"
struck in Montague from the doorway. "Somebody told
me the other day that you can get quite decent ones
for eighteenpence a pair. . . ."

Sonia flushed a little. She kept her eyes steadil}'' on
the growing ball of wool in Lady Merriam's white hands.

How long ago it seemed since Richard Chatterton had
entered the big London drawing-room and asked the
same careless question! She had thought it terrible
then. Why was it that now it seemed to matter less?

"That's just like a man!" Lady Merriam declared.
She looked at Montague disapprovingly. "You can't
have any nice feeling or understanding to ask such a
thing," she told him. "Anybody can march into a shop
and order a dozen pairs of socks; the whole point is

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 117

troubling to sit at home and make them when one might
be doing other things."

"Hear, hear!" said old Jardine.

Montague crossed to where Sonia stood; he put a
proprietary arm round her waist. Young Courtenay,
noticing it, scowled.

He let the . skein slip oflF his awkward hands and
blundered it into a hopeless tangle in his efforts to re-
place it.

By the time he had succeeded, Montague had taken
Sonia away.

Old Jardine rose to his feet with an eloquent sort of
growl.

Lady Merriam looked up.

"You may swear if you like," she said sympathetically.
"I would if I were a man."

"Are they going to be married soon?" asked young
Courtenay hesitatingly.

Heaven alone knows!" said her ladyship exaspera-
tedly. "It's beyond me altogether." She rose, shaking
out the folds of her skirt. "If that man stays here
for more than another day I shall be rude to him,"
she declared.

Old Jardine fidgeted with his collar.

"I couldn't stand a great deal of him myself," he
admitted, "but I shall have to run up to town to-morrow
— only for a few hours," he added hastily, as she began
to expostulate. "I'll be back again in the evening if
there's a decent train; you don't know at all how they
run, my boy, I suppose?"

"There's a nine-thirty fast up in the morning. I'm
going by it myself. . . •"

"I'll come with you; nine-thirty will do me nicely."

'ii8 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

He looked at Lady Merriam. "A little matter of base-
ness," he explained.

"Business!" scoffed her ladyship. "Why " She

stopped; something in the expression of old Jardine's
eyes seemed to convey a poignant meaning to her ex-
asperated mind. She went back to her chair meekly
enough. "Very well; I'll tell the maids to have break-
fast early," she said.

She watched old Jardine closely during the remainder
of the evening, and as soon as young Courtenay had g^
taken his leave she followed him into the library and
closed the door peremptorily.

"Well?" she demanded truculently.

This time old Jardine did not attempt to misunder-
stand her. "He's going to the front," he said bluntly.

"Richard?"

"And you're going up to see him off !"

"I'm going to try; they're down in Surrey now, but
I want to see him if possible. If he never comes
back . . ."

Lady Merriam said "Fiddlesticks !" though there were
tears in her eyes. She had never discovered till Richard
Chatterton stopped coming to her house how much she
really liked him.

She had never approved of him; she had scolded him
roimdly to his face on many occasions ; but, in spite of it
all, he had found his way to a very real comer of her
heart.

"And Sonia knows nothing," she said tragically.

"No— poor child!"

She looked up. "Why 'poor child'?" she demanded.

"Because," said old Jardine rather sadly, "she cares
nothing for Montague, and some day she '11 realize that
she did care for the other man."

CHAPTER X

SQNIA was sitting undecidedly at her desk a fort-
night after Montague and old Jardine had gone
back to town when Lady Merriam came into the
room; she held an open letter in her hand.

"This is from Jardine, Sonia. He wants us to run
up to town for a couple of days. He's got tickets for
a concert in aid of the Servians or the Russians or
something, and he says we really must go. We can stay
at a hotel for a couple of nights and do a bit of shopping
by the way. I'm positively dowdy, or is it that one
only feels dowdy in this sort of village? Anyhow, I'm
going to accept. Youll come, won't you?"

Sonia's face brightened; she held out her hand for
old Jardine's letter, expecting to be allowed to read it,
as she generally was, but Lady Merriam pretended not
to have seen.

"That's settled, then," she said, more cheerfully than
she had spojcen for days. "We'll go up by the early
train in the morning. I shall send him a wire."

It was a mild, sunny morning, and the London streets
were crowded Lady Merriam looked about her with
sparkling eyes.

"It's glorious to be back," she said ecstatically.
"Sonia, I must positively stop and buy some flowerSc
• . . Please!"

Old Jardine touched the communicating bell ; he gave
his orders through the speaking-tube.

119

I20 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

Sonia waited in the car while he escorted Lady Mer-
riam to make her purchases. There was a taxi standing
at the curb a little way down the road; a girl in nurse's
uniform was sitting inside, evidently waiting for some-
one who had gone into a shop. . . . Sonia looked at her
casually; then her attention was arrested; she thought
she had never seen a prettier face.

The demureness of the blue nurse's bonnet suited her
to perfection. Her pretty, fair hair was neatly parted
and waved; there was a little flush in her cheeks.

Sonia wondered idly for whom she was waiting. A
lover, perhaps. She looked away with a little sigh.

She did not again glance in the direction of the taxi
till she heard it starting away. The pretty nurse was
no longer alone. A man sat beside her. Sonia could
only see the back of his head through the window. He
looked as if he were heavily wrapped in a muffler. She
leaned forward interestedly. What sort of a man was
he, she wondered. He seemed very attentive to his
companion.

The taxi had wheeled about now and was passing close
to where Sonia waited. She found herself watching
it with strained attention. She wanted to see that man's
face — why she did not know. And then, just as the
two vehicles were abreast, he turned his head and looked
straight at her. It was Richard Chatterton.

CHAPTER XI

SONIA sat staring before her through the pale sun-
shine with unseeing eyes. She felt as if someone
had given her a blow over the heart.

Richard! Once before she had imagined that she
had seen him in a passing taxicab and been mistaken,
but this time she was sure — sure. . . .

And old Jardine had said he was abroad! Her
mind was confused.

Richard here, when she had believed him on his way
to America; Richard driving with another woman!

The blood rushed back to her heart; she could feel
it surging to her face in a flaming tide.

How soon he had forgotten her!

Another woman, and such a pretty woman, too!

Sonia bit her lip.

Why should she be jealous? — ^he was nothing to her.
What did she care how he spent his time, or with whom?

Old Jardine came trotting across the path from the
florist's shop towards her. He carried a huge bunch of
flowers and was followed by an attendant with more.
Lady Merriam was still in the shop.

"For you, my dear !" he said, laying his burden in her
lap. "Lady Merriam said they were your favorite
flowers."

Gorgeous, scented violets, of wonderful Neapolitan
blue.

"Thank you — ^thank you very much," Sonia answered

121

122 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

dazedly. She lifted the flowers and laid her cheek against
them. With their perfume came a rush of intolerable
memory.

Chatterton had always sent her violets. For a moment
she closed her eyes.

Old Jardine was watching her with faint anxiety.

"Is anything the matter, my dear? You look very
pale."

She was pale no longer. She felt as if the flush that
dyed her cheeks must envelop the whole of her body.
She was jealous — ^she knew it now; miserably, cruelly
jealous of the nurse with the pretty face — ^the girl who
had smiled a welcome to Richard Chatterton.

Impulsively she rushed into speech. Lady Merriam
was still lingering in the shop.

"I thought you told me Mr. Chatterton had gone to
America; you did tell me so, I know . . . but he went
by just now ; he drove by in a taxi. . . ."

"What !" Old Jardine almost shouted his exclamation.
There was a delighted gleam in his eyes. "Richard here,
in London ! Impossible ! Why . . ." he broke off, cov-
ering his delight with a very exaggerated cough.

"It was he; I know I am not mistaken," Sonia went
on unsteadily. "And he saw me, too; he was — he was
with a girl in nurse's uniform."

"What!" Once again the exclamation was almost a
shout. "With a girl in nurse's uniform ! . . . God bless
my soul!"

He looked at Sonia expectantly. Of course, now she
knew the whole secret; now she had seen Dick, she
must also have seen his uniform; but the seconds passed
and she said nothing; her averted face looked strangely
cold and set

Old Jardine dashed off into rapid speech again.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 123

"Perhaps you were mistaken, my dear."

"I don't think so/'

Old Jardine was frankly puzzled. He was tre-
mendously relieved when Lady Merriam joined them.

"Money flies!" said her ladyship as she sank down
to the luxurious seat beside Sonia. "I spent three
pounds before I knew it, and had to borrow from Mr.
Jardine."

The car started forward again.

"I'm just beginning to enjoy myself," Lady Merriam
said again ecstatically. "Not that I haven't enjojred
your beautiful Burvale, my dear," she added hastily,
turning to Sonia. "But, with this war on, I do like
to be on the spot, as it were. Down in the country one
can't keep in touch with things. Give me London before
any place in the world."

Old Jardine drove with them to their hotel.

"I am going to invite myself to dinner to-night," he
said. "And we can all go on to the concert togethen
I hope you'll enjoy it."

He looked at Sonia. He was dying to tell Lady
Merriam what had happened when she was in the florist's^

"Why not stay to lunch with us?" she said; but old
Jardine shook his head.

"Should be delighted, but I have an appointment.
Tell you about it later," he added in an undertone as
Sonia moved away.

He rushed off in a great hurry; he meant to find out
somehow if Chatterton were in London.

Nobody at the club knew an3rthing, or, if they did, all
old Jardine's most tactful questioning elicited nothing..
To most of them Qiatterton was wiped oflf the slate.

Old Jardine began to lose heart; if Richard were bade
in town and in the company of a uniformed nurse, it

124 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

conld only mean one thing; that Richard was wounded
or ilL

It was a fortnight since his battalion went to France ;
of course, there was plenty of time for him to have
stopped a bullet, but— old Jardine had a brain wave:
he scrambled through his lunch, and dashed o£F to
Clement's Inn to the office of the solicitor who had ad-
ministered Chatterton's affairs when he had had any
affairs to administer.

The solicitor knew old Jardine very well, but he hesi-
tsdcd to give the required information; he admitted that
Riichard was back in town.

"Invalided home, of course," said old Jardine. He
was standing very erect with squared shoulders ; he spoke
^sharply in a military voice.

"Yes — nothing serious ; a shrapnel wound in the right
shoulder, he tells me, and of course he can't use his
arm for the present Bad luck, isn't it? It happened
when he had only been under fire a couple of days. He's
going 1}ack, of course."

"Of course," echoed old Jardine, rather fiercely. "And
what did you say his address was?"

The other man smiled.

**I didn't say, but . . . well, I suppose there's no
harm in telling you, though he did not wish it to be
generally known. . . ."

He wrote the address on a card, and gave it to old
Jardme.

"It's a private hospital, I believe," he said.

Old Jardine hurried off. He felt like an excited school-
boy when he reached his destination. He nearly had
a row with a porter, who insisted firmly, but politely,
lihat he wait in an ante-room while he made inquiries
ior Mr. Chatterton.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 125

But he had not long to wait. When presently he was
being escorted across the wide entraface hall, Chatterton
came out of an opposite door to meet him.

He was looking a little thin and pale, and he wore his
right arm in a sling. But he smiled cheerily enough
when he saw his visitor.

"You're a regular sleuth-hound," he said, as old
Jardine seized his left hand in a bear-like grip. "How
did you find me out? I didn't mean to tell you I was
back. It seems such an absurdity to be out there only
a few days before getting winged. Mere scratch, but
they insisted that I should come home. . . . But how did
you run me to earth?"

"I didn't, my boy ... I shouldn't have known a word
about it, only Sonia saw you this morning in Regent
Street — said she saw you drive by in the taxi with a
nurse. Did you see her?"

Chatterton paled a little.

"I did, yes. I — I thought she cut me." His voice
was a little constrained.

"Not on your life," said old Jardine energetically,
"Don't believe it . . . but the queer part is that she
never seemed to realize what it all meant. I should have
tliought the fact of your being with a nurse would have
told her. But she thought you were in America, you
know."

"America! Why on earth America?"

"Goodness alone knows 1 There 's been some sort of
rumor at the club that you had gone there, and I suppose
Montague heard it and took good care to pass it on.
Well, and how gcfes it?"

They were in a small private room now, and Richard
had sunk down into a chair rather wearily. It was all
very well to say that his wound was a mere scratch.

126 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

but now that the first flush of pleasure at this meeting
had faded, old Jar(£ne thought he was looking very ill.

"Oh, it's all right," he answered casually. "We were
only in the trenches a couple of days when I picked
this up, you know. Seems almost incredible, doesn't it,
that we can go to the war for a sort of week-end trip ?"

"And you're glad you went?"

Chatterton's thin face flushed a little,

"I wish I had gone before," he said slowly, and then,
with change of voice: "Gad! it's a fine experience, I
can tell you, and our chaps are absolute heroes. Fellows
who've never roughed it for a single day in all their
lives, suffering inconceivable discomforts cheerfully. . . .
Do you remember Jack Gay?"

"Should think I do — effeminate sort of beggar, I al-
ways thought him. . . ."

"You wouldn't think so now; he's the life and soul
of his men ; cheers 'em when they're down — ^which isn't
often, I admit; but I always thought him a bit of a
snob . . . Well, he's very different out there, and the
Tommies worship him. . . . He got a bullet in the thigh
the same day I got mine, and he stuck it out till he
dropped from sheer weakness. That's the right stuff, eh ?'*

There was pride in his voice and his eyes were full
of a quiet enthusiasm.

"I never cared for Gay myself, you know," he went
on half-ashamedly. "Thought him a bit of an ass, but,
dash me, if I don't ask his pardon when he comes
uaciv* . '• •

Old Jardine cleared his throat vigorously.

"So you're going back?" he said presently. "Not yet
awhile, of course; you won't be fit to go yet. . . ."

"Oh, I think I shall before long. Nurse Anderson says
I'm getting on famously . . . that was Nurse Ander-

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 127

son with me this morning; she's been a brick; but they
all are, if it comes to that**

Old Jardine smiled.

"So, apparently, you've no complaints to make?" he
said cheerily. "Well, that's good hearing. Is there any-
thing I can do for you?**

Chatterton shook his head.

"Nothing, thanks. They do us capitally here — it seems
like Paradise after the trenches. . . ." He made a little
grimace, got up with a sigh, and walked over to the ,
window. There was a momentary silence.

"So Sonia told you she saw me, did she?" he said
presently. "How is sh» — well?"

"Yes."

"And — and happy?*' The question came jerkily.

Old Jardine hesitated.

"It's difficult to say," he answered at last. "Montague
wanted to rush her oflF to the registrar's, and she
wouldn't consent, so he got huffed, and hasn't been near
her for a few days . . . but I suppose he'll turn up
smiling again when he knows she's in town."

"Have you only just come back from Burvale, then?'*

"She and Lady Merriam came up this morning. I'm
taking them to a concert to-night — the Grand Duke's
concert for the Russian wounded, you know. . . ."

No answer. Chatterton was staring into the street
with wistful eyes.

"By the way," old Jardmc went on, "I met a young
friend of yours down at Burvale; nice boy, named
Courtenay. He said I met him before — that time we
were all down there with you — ^but I didn't remember
him. He was furious with Sonia for . . ."

Chatterton swung round.

"Like his confounded impudence!" he said angrily.

128 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

"What the deuce has it got to do with him, I should
like to know?"

"Nothing — except that he seems to be a great admirer
of yours."

Chatterton laughed.

"Oh, he's a nice boy enough. • . . What's he doing,
by the way?"

"The last time I saw him was at Euston; he was off
to join something or other; very enthusiastic; but he had
been thrown out once — couldn't pass the doctor, you
know."

Chatterton made no comment ; he was pacing the room
restlessly. There was a hundred questions he was burn-
ing to ask about Sonia; he had thought so much about
her during these few days in France that had seemed
like so many weary years ; the torturous, wakeful nights
had been filled with her.

He swung round, asking an abrupt question.
What part of the house are you going to to-night?"
What part of the house? Oh, the concert! Stalls,
I believe; but I really forget. . . • Why?"

Chatterton laughed mirthlessly.

"Oh, I'm not proposing to join you— -don't think that,"
Tie said. "Only I thought I should just like to have a
look at Sonia, I might manage to get up in the balcony,
or somewhere, perhaps, without letting her see me."

Old Jardine's face brightened. "I dare say you could,"
lie said almost eagerly. "But why not let her see you,
Dick? I think you're making a great mistake."

Chatterton's face hardened.

I thought we had settled that point,'* he said shortly.
At any rate, I've made up my mind. ... I suppose
— I suppose Montague won't be with you ?" He laughed
rather forcedly. "I shouldn't like to answer for myself

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 129

if I saw him sitting there. . . ." He broke off. "Oh,
I shan't come," he added roughly.

Memory was scourging him with whips of fire; it
was all very fine to try to convince himself that it no
longer mattered to him so terribly. His first despair
and remorse beat back upon him again in full force.

"I'm all right when I don't see her," he exclaimed
bluntly after a moment. "But this morning ... it ws^
all I could do to keep from flinging the door of the
taxi open and rushing back to her. I know I'm a fool
— I know I deserve it all and more — ^but . . . well, there
you are."

Old Jardine was very distressed. He did not know
what to say. He followed Chatterton's restlessly pacing
figure with mournful eyes.

"I know what it is — I know what it is," he said
sympathetically. "I went through it myself once, years
ago, and you don't forget it in a hurry. But you must
hope for the best, my boy; it's a long lane that has no
turning, you know. . . ."

"Best!" echoed Chatterton bitterly. 'The best that
could happen to me would have been a bullet through
the heart instead of where I got it. Who cares a damn
what becomes of me, I should like to know ! I'm ruined,
done for, down!"

"Dick!"

Chatterton turned impulsively.

"I'm sorry, Jardine; I didn't mean that But IVe
got a touch of blue devils this afternoon. I suppose
it's all through seeing Sonia . . . I'm sorry. Forget
what I said — I ought to be kicked."

"I understand, my boy. Felt the same myself once
He laid a kindly hand on Chatterton's wounded

• •

130 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

arm. "Never mind, lad; you've done your duty, any-
way, and that's something."

Oiatterton laughed ruefully.

'"Short-lived duty," he said more cheerfully. "Let's
talk about something else/'

Sonia's name was not mentioned again till just as old
Jardine was going; then Richard said diffidently:

"You've got that packet I gave you? You'll give
it to her, won't you, if — ^if the occasion ever arises?"

"I will, I most assuredly will."

"And — ^and if she's getting married, you know . • •
you might let me know if you can."

"I will, Dick; I will. . . ."

Old Jardine walked away feeling decidedly depressed.

If only he could maneuver it so that Sonia and Richard
could run across one another.

Lady Merriam would help him, he was sure, if. . . .
He had been walking with his head downbent, and had
run violently into someone at the comer.

That broke his trend of thought, and dented his hat,
and for the moment dismissed Sonia and Chatterton from
his mind.

But they were brought again to his memory forcibly
when he reached home, and foimd Montague waiting for
him — Montague, with a decidedly ill-tempered face.

He barely returned old Jardine's greeting.

** Where is Miss Markham?" he began. "I went down
to Burvale this morning, and found that she and Lady
Merriam had only left an hour since. . . ."

Old Jardine chuckled — z chudcle instantly suppressed.
They've come up for the concert to-night," he said.
I had some tickets, and they kindly consented to use
them. But surely you knew? I should have thought
that Sonia . . ."

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 131

He paused suggestively.

Montague bit his lip; he was furious at the way his
plans had miscarried; he had been so sure of winning
Sonia back by his seeming indifference, and apparently
she cared nothing.

"I have not heard from Sonia since I left Burvale/*
he said curtly. He looked up angrily at old Jardine's
placid face. "Where are they staying?" he asked.

Old Jardine told him unhesitatingly.

"Fm going along there at seven to dinner. Will you
come witli me? There isn't a spare ticket for the con-
cert, but it might be managed, perhaps. . . ."

'Tm going along there now at once," said Montague.

He took his leave with a curt farewell.

He had not counted on Sonia behaving like this. Once
she had been so sweet with him; once he knew she had
looked for his coming.

He schooled himself to amiability when at last he saw
her.

"If only you knew how utterly wretched I have been,"
he said.

He put his arms round her. "Sonia, I was beginning
to imagine all manner of dreadful things — that you didn't
love me any longer."

"You went away of your own free will,'* she told him.
"I did not ask you to go . . . and you haven't written
to me."

"I wrote the night I got home.'*

"Oh, that little note!" Her voice was contemptuous.
Montague smiled above her head. So she was piqued
after all.

He raised her face by its chin.

"And are you pleased to see me?" he asked. "Sonia,
I think you are prettier than ever."

132 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

His voice was so like Chatterton's. At that moment
she told herself it might have been Richard speaking.

If only it had been ! . . . She pushed the thought away^
and answered him hurriedly:

"Of course I am. How did you find us?"

"I went down to Burvale and found you had gone.
Then I went to old Jardine and got your address."

The servants at home would have given it to you."

1 was not going to ask them. Do you think I wanted
them all to know that you and I had not written to
each other?"

He bent and kissed her hair.

Sonia stood very still.

"We are going to a concert to-night with Mr. Jardine/*
she rushed on impulsively. "Perhaps we could get a
ticket for you."

"I mean to come — even if I have to buy the royal box."

She laughed.

"That will be occupied."

He lifted the hand that wore his ring and kissed it.

"You don't know how happy I am to see you again.
I've been a fool to stay away."

"Lady Merriam will be surprised to see you here."

"And not too pleased, I suppose," he submitted drily.

She drew her hand from his.

"It's silly to say things like that; she likes all my
friends."

"I am not your friend."

She raised her eyes to his, but dropped them before
their ardent gaze.

His arms tightened about her.

'*I am not your friend, Sonia ; I am your lover — soon
to be your husband. • . . How soon, darling?"

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 133

He dropped his voice to a whisper; Sonia moved rest-
lessly.

"If I only could make myself want to marry him,"
she was thinking desolately.

She answered him evasively; an unkind memory had
flashed to her — ^the memory of Richard Chatterton and
the pretty, smiling face at his side. He had forgotten,
why could not she?

She roused herself determinedly; she would take what
the gods gave. After all, this man loved her sincerely,
and she had felt desperately lonely since he went away.

She insisted that he come to dinner with them that
night. She put on her prettiest frock to please him;
she was so gay and merry that old Jardine felt utterly
wretched when he remembered the restless unhappiness
of Chatterton's eyes. He was barely civil to Montague ;
be was really angry when he discovered that Montague
had managed to secure a seat next to theirs for the
night's concert

"Why can't the fellow see he's not wanted?" he said
to Lady Merriam.

Her ladyship coughed drily.

"Apparently he is wanted," she said, "to judge by
Sonia."

Sonia was charming to him ; only a very keen observer
would have seen that her eyes were too bright for real
happiness.

Richard Chatterton had not even tried to get a ticket,
for at the last moment his courage had failed him badly.
But his restlessness drove him out into darkened London
about the time he knew the concert would be ended,
and sheer longing carried his feet in the direction of the
theater. Involuntarily he stopped amongst the little crowd

134 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

of curious sightseers at the wide-flung doors. When the
first thin stream of people in evening dress flowed out
into the night he pressed a little forward with quickened
heart-beats. And then she came. Old Jardine was with
her; his kind, portly figure, so big and clumsy, beside
her slim daintiness ; and Lady Merriam — kind Lady Mer-
riam who had scolded him so many times for his
slackness.

Then he saw Montague ; Chatterton felt the blood rush
to his face.

Montague — who had been his friend! He was bend-
ing down to speak to Sonia; he was drawing the soft
folds of her cloak more warmly about her.

Unconsciously Chatterton took a step forward ; he felt
that he hated him — ^hated him with an intensity of pas-
sion of which he had never believed himself capable.
The blood hammered in his temples; he felt as if he
must rush forward and snatch her away; and then — as
if feeling the force of his emotion, Montague lifted his
head and looked straight into Chatterton's eyes across
the dividing crowd.

CHAPTER XII

FOR a moment Montague stood still, his jaw
dropped; he broke oflF in the middle of some-
thing he was saying to Sonia ; he could not force
his eyes away from the steely fury in Richard Chatter-
ton's eyes.

If Sonia saw him — in uniform — with his arm in a
sling !

For a moment he completely lost, his head; his hand
tightened almost convulsively on Soma's arm; she looked
up startled.

"Francis — what is it?"

The grip of his fingers bruised her arm beneath the
thin cloak she wore ; she winced, shrinking a little from
him.

She followed the direction of his gaze, but she was
much smaller than he, and an over-dressed woman with
a quivering sheaf of pink osprey in her hair completely
shut out Chatterton's white face, and the next moment
she was swept onwards in the stream of people to the
waiting car,

Montague sat opposite her, beside old Jardine; he
still looked pale and agitated ; he glanced apprehensively
through the window from time to time till the crowd
of vehicles cleared and they were free to move forward.
He had had a bad fright ; he would not have been in the
least surprised if Chatterton had attempted to make a
scene.

^3S

136 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

Sonia was looking at him curiously.

"What is the matter?" she asked suddenly. "Did you
sec someone in the crowd you wanted to get away from."

"I didn't see anyone."

The words came quickly enough in reply, but they
did not ring quite true. He wiped his brow furtively
and let down the window of the car with a little run,
turning his face to the cool night air.

Chatterton was in London, and wounded! Any day
Sonia might run across him.

He must make Sonia marry him, and at once ; but how ?

Each hour of delay added to his danger ; at any moment
she might come face to face with Richard, picturesque
and handsome with his wounded arm.

He sat up half the night plotting and planning; he
was in very real distress.

In the end a freak of fortune set his feet on the right
path.

He had arranged to call and take Sonia out in the
morning; he left his rooms early, driven by restlessness,
and walked across the Park.

It was a fine, fresh morning, and already quite a
number of people were about. Montague struck off the
main path ; he was not in the mood to exchange platitudes
with people for whom he cared nothing ; he walked across
the grass, under the bare trees, and as he rounded a
clump of shrubbery he saw a man in khaki and a girl
in nurse's uniform strolling slowly along in front of him.

The man was tall, and his arm was in a sling.

Montague knew who it was before he caught a glimpse
of his face.

The girl was looking up at Qiatterton; her laugh
floated backwards through the morning air; Chatterton
laughed, too, bending a little towards her.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 137

Montague waited to see no more; he turned on his
heel and swung round, walking rapidly away in the
other direction.

But he had seen enough to magnify it a little without
condescending to a direct lie. It would make a pretty
story to repeat to Sonia.

He bought a magnificent buch of violets on his way
to the hotel, unconscious of the fact that they more
vividly recalled Richard Chatterton to Sonia than any
other gift could have done; they were expensive, and
that was all that mattered to his way of thinking. He
believed that all women liked expensive gifts.

Sonia was ready for walking when he reached the
hotel; she wore a long coat with rather a military cut
about it, in a fine covert coating that suited her fairness,
and a small, close-fitting hat with white flowers round
the narrow brim. She offered no resistance when Mon-
tague stooped and kissed her.

He laid the violets in her lap,

"I thought you would like them,*' he said. "I heard
you say once that they were your favorite flowers."

Sonia lifted the expensive flowers and laid them gently
on the table; she could not bear to look at them; their
glorious scent rose to her head and turned her giddy
with memories.

"You are very kind," she said. "Shall we go out?
I am quite ready, and it's such a fine morning."

"In a moment^' He took Sonia's hands, drawing her
to her feet before he encircled her with his arms.

"Sonia, when will you marry me?" There was noth-
ing impatient in his voice. It sounded almost humble;
the voice of a man who, knowing himself utterly un-
worthy, yet dares to sue for favors.

138 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"I know I 'm not nearly good enough for you, but . . n
oh, my darling, if you knew how much I love you 1"

In spite of herself Sonia was touched. She had not
seen him in this mood for so long. The thought came
to her at that moment that, after all, it would mean a
great deal to have an adoring husband. She remembered
having heard Lady Merriam often say that the happiest
marriages were those in which the greater love was on
the side of the man. But, all the same, she turned her
face away from the ardent gaze of his eyes. It was
an unkind freak of fate that led them to rest on the
exquisite bunch of violets on the table.

Just such violets grew in the long frames down at
Burvale ; just such violets Richard Chatterton had often
sent to her.

The old struggle of indecision began again in her mind.
She wanted time to decide. So she pleaded with him,
not realizing that her very indecision was the answer to
the question troubling her.

Montague released her instantly.

"Very well — I won't worry you. Shall we go for our
walk?"

As they were walking along the Strand a motor-car
full of wounded soldiers turned out of Charing Cross
Station.

There was a general rush and outburst of cheering
from the onlookers. Sonia ran a few steps forward
excitedly to join them.

"Poor fellows!" she said compassionately, turning
again to Montague. "It must seem to them as if we
are all dreadfully callous, going about here in just the
ordinary way, enjoying ourselves as if nothing were
happening so near. Did you notice that one sitting next
to the nurse? He looked too ill to even open his eyes/'

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 139

"I think they manage to have a pretty good time on
the whole," said Montague. "But, talking about nurses
. . ." He laughed, as if at some amusing recollection.
"Who do you think I saw in the park this morning with
a nurse — and a very pretty one, too, from all appear-
ances ?"

"Who ?" she asked,

"Chatterton," said Montague lightly. "Apparently he
hasn't gone to America, as we all heard. At any rate,
he was walking in the Park not an hour ago, and on
very good terms indeed with a nurse. He looked a
bit groggy; someone was saying yesterday that he had
had a touch of the 'flu — it's very much about, you know.
However, he seemed to be enjoying his convalescence
. . ." He laughed again as if it were of small im-
portance.

Sonia was fighting desperately for self-control; she
bit her lip till the blood came to steady her voice suffi-
ciently to answer. After a moment she forced herself
to speak.

"Oh, yes ; I saw him myself yesterday in Regent Street.
He was with a nurse then — ^probably the same one. She
certainly was very pretty."

"You — saw him?"

Montague asked the question in blank amazement.

"Yes. . . ." Sonia stopped to look in a shop window.
"It's rather childish to want a nurse for influenza, don't
you think ?" she asked, with a touch of scorn in her voice.

Montague felt a little dazed. If Sonia had seen Chat-
terton she must know that he was in uniform! Did
it mean, then, that she no longer cared anything for
hiai or for what he did?

He answered lamely.

I40 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"Sometimes the 'flu is very bad; sometimes it is a real
illness."

"A headache is a real illness to some people/' she
answered him.

She deliberately changed the conversation.

She knew Montague was watching her oddly. She
wondered with a sort of panic if he imagined that she
was still fretting for Richard; the thought drove her
to desperation. When, presently, it came on to rain and
Montague hailed a taxi, she slipped her hand through
his arm as they entered. She kept it there as they sat
side by side.

Montague promptly possessed himself of her hand.

"Happy?" he asked, smiling.

She nodded; she could not trust herself to speak.
He squeezed her fingers.

"So am I — so happy that I wish we could go on and
on forever just as we are now."

She laughed a little shakily.

"We should soon get hungry and hate each other."

"Should we? I don't believe it."

She looked up at him; she felt as if the time had
(come now when she must force herself to face decision.
It was impossible to go on shilly-shalljring forever.

She broke out suddenly rather shrilly:

"I wonder what sort of a husband you will make?"

He flushed.

"A devoted husband, I hope," he told her in a low
voice.

She hated herself when she read the sincerity in his
eyes. There was something so horribly cheap and sordid
in the whole situation.

"I dare say all men say that — before they are married,"
she said rather drearily.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 141

"I shall be the great exception that will prove the
rule," he assured her.

He put an arm round her slender figure.

"Try me and see," he whispered.

A sort of defiance seized her; what did It matter
after all?

She lifted herself a little in the circle of Montague's
arm as she thought again of Richard Chatterton.

He had forgotten her — ^well — she would forget him—*
forget him utterly!

Something in her face and the brilliancy of her eyes
emboldened the man at her side — ^he bent nearer.

"What is my answer to be, Sonia?"

For one desperate moment she clung to her freedom,
then suddenly — recklessly, she let it go.

"What you wish," she said almost inaudibly. "Just
whatever you wish."

CHAPTER XIII

PAIN often drives a man to foolishness ; it was pain
in the case of Richard Chatterton that drove him
to pay extra attention to Nurse Anderson.

She liked him; he knew perfectly well, apart from
the chaffing of the other men in the house, that she had
singled him out for special favors.

She was a pretty girl ; something in the way she looked
at him and smiled reminded him a little of Sonia. He
found himself exerting all his efforts to amuse her; he
liked talking to her; she was kind and sympathetic.

The meeting in the park that morning had been a
chance one, but Chatterton was glad of it.

There had been blue devils sitting on his shoulders
when he saw her coming towards him.

"What is the matter?" she asked cheerily, falling into
step beside him.

Chatterton laughed rather mirthlessly.
'Oh, I haven't slept . . . that's all."
'You don't look as if you have," she said sym-
pathetically. "What 's the matter? Isn't your arm so
well ?"

*'Oh, it's not that . . ." He stopped, wondering if
he might tell her what it was.

But it was not likely that she would want to be bothered
with stories of his foolishness.

"How is it you are out so early?" he asked.

"My time has been changed. . . ." She colored a little

142

€1'

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 143

as she answered ; she did not tell him that she had seen
him turn towards the park.

"I suppose you will soon be leaving us?" she said
presently.

"I hope so," said Chatterton thoughtlessly. He no-
ticed that she winced.

He was not a vain man, but just then he was very
miserable, and it made his heart-beats quicken a little
to see the way the pretty color faded from her cheeks.

"I suppose you'll be glad to be rid of me?" he went on.

"No."

The little monosyllable was spoken quietly; for a mo-
ment there was silence, then

"Would you throw a man over because he didn't en-
list?" he asked irrelevantly.

She raised her eyes wonderingly.

"What a funny question to ask I It all depends, of
course. If there were good reasons for a man stajring
at home I "

"Yes, but I mean supposing there were not. Suppos-
ing he were just a — a slacker — ^just didn't think — didn't
realize his responsibilities. Do you think you would
throw him over then?"

She hesitated.

"I think I should tell him," she said at last, "just
tell him very kindly and gently, without hurting his feel-
ings. I suppose there are ways of doing it," she sub-
mitted apologetically.

"There would be to some women," he agreed. "But
to others ... I suppose it would not be an easy thing
for some women to do."

They walked a few steps silently, then she asked:

"Do you know any man who has been thrown over
for not enlisting?"

144 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"Yes."

She did not ask any more. Chatterton wondered if
perhaps she gaessed that he was speaking of himself.

"I don't think the girl can have cared very much for
him," she went on decidedly.

Chatterton laughed.

"Well, perhaps she didn't," he admitted drily.

Their eyes met. Nurse Anderson colored. He went
on. "I'm not blaming her; don't think that. She was
much too good for me — ^there isn't a girl in the world
to touch her." He spoke with simple sincerity, uncon-
scious of the way his words hurt his listener, "I'm
sorry to bother you with all this — ^it can't interest you."

"It does — it interests me very much."

"It's all over now, at any rate; she-^she's going to
marry someone else."

"Som*5one else ?" There was a little incredulity in her
voice. "It didn't make any difference, then — when you
enlisted?"

"I never told her; I don't think she knows."

"You never told her?"

"How could I? Besides, I don't suppose it would
have made any difference."

He felt a little ashamed of the impulsive confidence;
he wondered if she thought it unmanly of him; he hur-
riedly changed the conversation.

A little farther on she left him; she said she had
to get back early. Chatterton stood for a moment watch-
ing her as she walked away from him across the grass ;
she walked with her head a little downbent; she did not
once look back.

Chatterton went on his way slowly; his momentary
cheeriness soon deserted him; the little blue devils of

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 145

depression came creeping back again now he was once
more left to his thoughts.

He cursed the ill-luck that had invalided him back
to London. Why could he not have stayed out there
beyond the reach of temptation?

Last night it would have been such an easy thing to
walk up to old Jardine or Lady Merriam, and so compel
Sonia's notice. It had required a mighty effort of will
to hold himself back from following when Montague
led Sonia on and out of his sight in that crowd.

In that brief glimpse of her he had missed no detail
of her dainty person — ^the proudly erect little head, the
soft hair which he had so often kissed. . . .

It seemed impossible now that she had ever been his,,
and that he had let her slip beyond the reach of his
aching arms.

Old Jardine had said that there was much in life ta
make up for the loss of love. Old Jardine was a fool t
Bless his kindly heart! How could anything ever make
up for the greatest thing in all the world?

The rain was pattering down now relentlessly ? Pedes-
trians hurried past him seeking shelter; raindrops were
dripping off the peak of his cap; he felt tired and
dispirited.

He had to wait a moment on an island in the road
to allow a stream of traffic to pass. As he stood there
a young man dashed across under the very nose of a
snorting motor-omnibus; he landed beside Chatterton
flushed and breathless.

Chatterton glanced down at him smilingly.

"That was a narrow shave," he said. Then: "Courte-
nay, by Jove!"

"Dick! Good old Dick!"

Young Courtenay was hanging on to his uninjured

146 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

hand in frantic delight; his bo3dsh face was crimson with
excitement

"I was just thinking about you, and wondering where
on earth you were!" he said. "Mr. Jardine said you
were in America; I knew you weren't, though! Have
you been out yet ? But of course you have, and wounded,
too! I say, how ripping!"

Chatterton laughed rather ruefully.

"I was pretty sick about it," he said. "Only ten days
out there I"

"That's a long time compared to what some of 'em
get," young Courtenay declared. "I knew one chap who
went out Saturday, got shot on Sunday, and was back
here in London Monday evening. That's record time,
eh? . . . I've joined myself now, you know — ^the Rifle
Brigade. Passed the doctor yesterday. . . ." He broke
off and looked up at Chatterton with beaming eyes.
**Jove! I am glad to see you again."

They crossed the road together.

"So Jardine told you I was in America," said Chat-
terton.

"Yes, he said he thought so. Sonia . . ." he broke
off, coloring with embarrassment. "I say, I'm beastly
sorry about — ^you know !" he ended lamely.

"Yes — thanks," Chatterton's voice was constrained.
"She's going to be married to— to a friend of mine,"
he added with difficulty.

"I know." Courtenay spoke disgustedly. "I met the
silly ass down at Burvale! Can imagine what she can
see in him, swanking about with that limp of his."

Chatterton could not help laughing.

"The limp's genuine enough," he admitted. "Give
the devil his due, old son. And he's not a bad sort
— ^really.'*

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 147

Courtenay growled something unintelligible.

Sonia 's in town now, you know," he said presently.
I ran into Lady Merriam this morning and she told me.
They're staying at the S Hotel for a few days."

Chatterton made no comment.

"You haven't seen her, I suppose," Courtenay went on.

"No — at least only in the distance last night — coming
out of a theater; she didn't see me."

Courtenay glanced at him admiringly; he thought
Chatterton looked ripping in his uniform; he thought
it a beastly shame that Sonia had not seen him, and
did not know that he had been wounded. At the back
of his mind a little resolution was forming that he would
make it his business to see that she heard all about it
before many hours had passed.

He adroitly turned the conversation; he asked a
himdred questions about the war; Sonia was not men-
tioned again.

"You must come and have some grub with me one
day," Chatterton said as they parted. "We shall be go-
ing back soon, I hope. If only this beastly arm of mine
would heal . . ."

Courtenay said he would be delighted ; he made a note
of Richard's address; as soon as Richard was out of
sight he rushed off to the hotel where Sonia was staying.

He was quite sure in his own mind that Sonia could
care nothing for Montague; he firmly believed that she
and Chatterton had only had a sort of lovers' tiff that
could be put right ; he rather fancied himself as a peace-
maker; Chatterton was such a ripping good sort! And
Sonia was one of the best.

But Sonia was not in; Lady Merriam was alone in
their private sitting-room.

"Soma's out," she said as she shook hands with

148 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

Courtenay. "I may as well tell you that she and I have
had a few words — ^yes, we have! Quite angry words!
The silly girl has given in to that Montague man at last,
and they're going to be married in a fortnight."

Young Courtenay forgot his manners and said*

'Whatr

He said it in italics, and then again in capital letters :

"What !"

His round, good-natured face fell into lines of almost
childish disappointment Lady Merriam spread her
hands.

"That's what we all say! That's what I've been
saying ever since she threw Richard over! I've no
patience with her. Unfortunately it's my duty to go
to the — ceremony, or I would not go within a thousand
miles of it. Sonia knows what I think, I came as near
to quarreling with her as I dared, but she doesn't seem
to care; she's changed completely, and she used to be
so fond of me — she used to think the world of my
advice. . . . Well, there you are!"

There was a suspicion of tears in Lady Merriam's
kind voice. She crossed over to the fire and stood look-
ing down into it with eyes that were blurred.

Young Courtenay stared round the room. He had
thought great things of Sonia.

Perhaps, after all, she was like the vicar's youngest
daughter, fickle and inconstant; but he was dashed if
he could understand it — dashed if he could understand
any woman preferring Montague to a ripping fine chap
like old Dick. ...

"What — what does Mr. Jardine say?" he asked
presently with a sort of helplessness.

"He doesn't know; she only sprang it upon me half
an hour ago. She went out with Montague this mom-

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 149

ing, and he made her promise to marry him In a fort-
night; that's all I know. She says it's going to be
quite quiet — ^no bridesmaids and fuss. And they're
going straight down to Burvale. I don't call it decent
— to put Montague there in Richard's shoes."

Young Courtenay hunched his shoulders.

"Well, she's got to live with him, after all — ^we
haven't," he said laconically. "But I met Richard this
morning. Have you seen him?"

"No, I haven't. I'm fond of Sonia, but with all
respect to her I don't think she can be right in the head.
She doesn't care a snap of the fingers for Montague,
but she'll marry him out of sheer obstinacy. Of course,
she doesn't know a thing about Dick having enlisted;
we're all sworn to deadly secrecy."

Her ladyship spoke with sarcasm ; she considered that
this was an occasion on which one's word of honor might
wear elastic-side boots.

Young Courtenay's eyes gleamed; he opened his lips
as if to speak, then closed them again with a sort of snap.

Lady Merriam sat down in an armchair with a heavy
sigh.

"I wish Mr. Jardine would come along," she said
despondingly. "He's the one grain of comfort I've
had during these weeks. He's quite sure in his own
mind that Sonia will end up like they do in the old
fairy tales by marrying Richard and living happily ever
after. I know he's absolutely wrong myself, but I like
to hear him say it. But you don't want to be bored
with all my woes. How are you, and have you got into
anything yet?"

"Yes — ^the Rifle Brigade. I'm jolly glad; it's been
rotten having to walk about in mufti when nearly every

ISO RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

man a fellow meets is in unifonn. Fancy Dick Chatter-
ton getting shot so soon? Hard luck, wasn't it?"

"Poor dear!"

It was wonderful how Lady Merriam's affection for
Richard had grown during the past few weeks. She
had completely forgotten the many times she had told
Sonia not to waste her affection on such a slacker. Her
prejudice against Montague magnified Richard's virtues.

She wrote a note to old Jardine that night to tell him
what had happened.

"They're to be married, after all," she began thea-
trically. "Sonia has taken the bit between her teeth
and bolted. Talk about marriages being made in heaven !
I should think this one was brought about in a very
different place. Why haven't you been roimd to-day?
I've been expecting you."

Old Jardine wrote by return. He was indoors with
a bad cold, he said, or he should have come round in
person to answer her letter.

"Your news sounds bad, but I think it sounds worse
than it really is," he wrote. "For goodness' sake,
don't show that you object! You know how many mar-
riages are pushed on to completion by opposition. Let
Sonia think you are delighted. Talk to her about it,
like a wise woman ; talk weddings and arrangements till
she's sick to death of the subject. But I don't need
to tell you. The doctor won't let me out to-day. Don't
think I'm a molly-coddle and sent for him; my house-
keeper did that. You know how fussy she is, and he
is afraid of a return of my asthma, so I'm going to
stay in till to-morrow, when you may be sure I shall
pay you a visit. What a long while ago it seems since
we met! . . ."

Lady Merriam laughed and sighed together over Old

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 151

Jardine's letter; it was just the kind of epistle he used
to write to her years ago when they were both young;
she found it impossible to believe that he and she were
both middle-aged and stout. . . .

"But that's a fine idea of his! Fine!" she told her-
self, and forthwith began to make plans to carry it out.

When Sonia was dressing for dinner that night Lady
Merriam went to her room.

"I dressed early/' she explained when she was ad-
mitted, "because I thought I 'd come and talk to you
before Francis arrives. He is coming to dinner, of
course, isn't he?"

"Yes — I didn't exactly ask him, but . . ."

"He would have been very foolish if he'd waited
for an invitation," Lady Merriam declared breezily.
"Such a devoted lover, isn't he? ... So different from
Richard Chatterton."

She sat down by the fire in such a position that she
could see Sonia while she stood at the dressing-table.

"Richard has influenza," Sonia answered quickly,
though her color had risen a little. "Francis saw him
walking about the Park this morning with a nurse!"

"Influenza!" echoed Lady Merriam shrilly. "Why
. . . I thought he was in America," she finished, more
quietly.

Sonia was brushing her long hair; she looked very
young and girlish as she stood there. Lady Merriam
rose suddenly and put her arms round her.

"I'm afraid I've been a pig to you to-day," she said
remorsefully. "I'm sorry, and if you're going to be
happy that's all that matters. I'm sure Francis will
make you an excellent husband; so devoted! Why, he
looks as if he could eat you! . . ." She laughed and

152 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

kissed the girl's flushing cheek before she went back
to her chair.

"And now tell me all about it," she went on com-
fortably. "I want to hear all the details; I adore wed-
dings. What are you going to wear ! You '11 be married
in a proper wedding gown and veil, won't you!"

"Oh, no; just something quite plain. There mustn't
be any fuss. I thought one of the frocks I have by

me. . . .

Lady Merriam exclaimed shrilly:

"Sonial You're never going to cheat the poor man
out of a proper wedding! You know a man loves to
see the girl he's to marry in bridal array! Now, I
do object to that! I shall side with Francis in that
matter! , . . and you'll make a lovely bride. I can
just picture you in that veil you were to have worn
before . . . real Limerick lace, Sonia ! Think of it ! And
so lucky! It's been worn by twenty brides. . . •"

Sonia's face was half hidden by her cloud of hair.
Her voice sounded muffled as she answered :

"It's all nonsense and sheer waste of money. I want
everything to be as quiet as possible. . . ."

"And the honeymoon ? Where are you going to spend
that? Why not ask David Bretherton to lend you the
Red Grange, as it's an impossibility to go to Paris or
anywhere fashionable — ^unless you'd like to set a new
fashion and take a. run out to the war for a honeymoon!
Think of it, Sonia! All the papers would be full of
it — it would be quite a . . . quite a — ^what do the Ameri-
cans call it? — a stunt! . . . Oh, I must tell Francis.
. . ." Lady Merriam clapped her hands excitedly. She
was beginning to enjoy herself. She tried to steel her
heart to the hurt look on Sonia's face.

"How can you suggest such a thing, Lady Merriam!

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 153

It would be horrid — simply horrid to try and get a sort
of cheap notoriety out of the war."

"Oh, very well! But I think it's a fine idea. I shall
most certainly tell him . . . and what is he going to
give you for a wedding present? I am so interested.
Don't let him suggest a sable coat or anything absurd,
like Richard did, now the winter is half gone and you
have got that lovely musquash already. And don't have
any more opals. You know I told you when Richard
gave you that opal necklace that It would bring you
bad luck, and you see I was right! I hope you sent it
back to him with his other presents. I'm horribly
superstitious. . . ." She shivered, drawing her plump
shoulders together ^exaggeratedly.

Sonia laughed mirthlessly. She dropped her silver
brush with a little clatter to the dressing-table.

"There isn't any such thing as luck!" she said, with
a sort of weary C3ntiicism. "It's just a toss up whether
one has a happy life or not. . . ."

"And what is that but luck, pray?" demanded her
ladyship. "And it's not so very long ago since you
showed me a four-leaved clover Dick Chatterton gave
you. You said then that you were going to keep it
forever and ever."

Sonia cut in rather sharply:

"Oh, do let's talk about something more interesting
than Mr. Chatterton; and isn't it nearly dinner-time?"

"It is; but you're so slow dressing, . . . Perhaps I
worry you? Shall I go away?"

"Of course not. . . ."

"And the wedding is to be — ^when?" Lady Merriam
went on.

"The thirteenth. . . ."

154 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"Heavens! You 're just courting disaster. Yotl 11
be telling me next that it's a Friday. . . ."

"I believe it is. What does it matter?"

Sonia took up her gloves and handkerchief. "I'm
ready, if you are. . . ."

She carried her dainty head high as she followed Lady
Merriam down the wide staircase. One or two men in
the lounge looked after her admiringly. Montague, who
was waiting there, came eagerly forward.

Lady Merriam rustled up to him.

"I haven't congratulated you properly yet, have I?"
she said beamingly. "Sonia tells me you're to be mar-
ried almost at once. I am sure I wish you every hap-
piness. . . ." She held out her hand.

Montague looked a little doubtful as he took it.

"You are very kind. Most kind . . ." he murmured.
He looked askance at Sonia. He did not quite under-
stand this new departure.

Lady Merriam made herself delightful during dinner;
she resolutely kept the conversation to the subject of
the wedding; she told Montague of her idea for a honey-
moon.

"Soma is so keen on the war; don't you think it would
be very novel?"

"As if it would be allowed!" Sonia submitted scorn-
fully.

Lady Merriam raised her brows.

"And why not, pray? I hear that the cross-channel
boats are swarming every day with society women who
have gone out on some pretext or another. You have
only to be interested in the wounded soldiers, or
anxious to sing to them or something, and you'll be
welcomed with open arms."

Montague laughed.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 155

"I am afraid it doesn't appeal to me very much/* he
said. He glanced at Sonia ; she looked pale and nervous.

They were dining in the public restaurant by her wish;
she felt as if she wanted as much life and gayety as
possible. Sonia wished Lady Merriam would stop talk-
ing about her marriage; it made her very soul writhe
to hear all the details of the wedding discussed again
as they had been weeks before when she had been en-
gaged to Chatterton.

Lady Merriam was rattling on.

"You're a brave man, Francis. I suppose I may call
you Francis now, may I not? You're a brave man to
fix your wedding day for a Friday — and the thir-
teenth too."

He looked at Sonia. .

"One day is as good as another to me. I do not be-
lieve in silly superstition."

"I do ; and I always remember an absurd song I once
heard at a music hall or something about getting bom
on a Friday. ... Of course, you can't choose your
birthday, but it's rather different with one's wedding
day."

She insisted on ordering champagne. She drank a
solemn toast to the "bride and bridegroom."

"Best of luck to you both," she said.

She felt a horrible hypocrite. Sonia's white face and
strained smile hurt her. But she persisted bravely.
When dinner was ended she managed to absent herself.
She went oif to her own room and shed a few tears of
pity for Sonia. . . .

She comforted herself with the saying that sometimes
one has to be cruel to be kind. She dabbed her nose
with powder, and cheered up again.

CHAPTER XIV

OLD Jardine carried the war into the enemy's
camp the next day.
"So you 're to be married after all, my dear,"
he asked Sonia interestedly, and even his shrewd eyes
could detect no quiver of the girl's face as she answered
him a little flippantly.

"Yes, really and truly this time. Lady Merriam is
horrified because we have pitched on the 13th, but I'm
not at all superstitious. As Francis says, what does it
matter if we're happy?"

"No," echoed old Jardine gravely. "What does it
matter if you are happy?"

Sonia turned abruptly away and stood fidgeting with
a book lying on the table ; there was a little silence ; then
old Jardine got up and, walking over to her, gently
turned her towards him..

"And are you — ^happy?" he asked.

The color flamed in her cheeks, her eyes fell, but she
raised them again almost instantly, and they were bright
and defiant.

"Of course I am!" she said. She spoke in the hard
voice of one who tries to believe what she is sa)ring.
"I ought to be if I'm not — I have got everything I want
— and Francis is simply devoted . . ."

She stopped short, biting her lip. Suddenly she began
to stammer.

"I wish you wouldn't look at me like that. I — ^I • • .**

156

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 157

She tried to laugh. "You'll be thinking I'm not
happy; but I am . . . We're going to have everything
very quiet, but you'll come, won't you? I shan't take
any refusal . . ." She moved away from him resolutely.

Old JarcKne hardly recognized Sonia in this new mood.
It worried him greatly.

Did she care for Richard or did she not? That was
the question that vexed him!

If he could only be sure . . . but apparently she was
not in the least likely to ever satisfy him on that point.

The next moment she was laughing and chatting away
as if she had not a care in the world; she told him of
Lady Merriam's absurd idea for a honeymoon; she
laughed as if she considered it a great joke.

She rattled on with hardly a pause.

"We're going to have a little dinner-party on Friday
night — ^we go back home on Saturday, you know. . . .
Oh, no, it's not at all a swell aflFair — just ourselves,
and you — and Bertie Courtenay, and two friends of
Francis's. . • . You must come; it's probably the last
time I shall entertain you before I'm married." She
slipped her hand through his arm and gave it an affec-
tionate squeeze.

Old Jardine answered helplessly:

"You're very kind, my dear, very kind. I shall be
only too pleased — only too pleased." But his voice
sounded lugubrious.

Something in Soma's manner made him think that
Lady Merriam was right, and that he and Lady Mer-
riam were beaten.

He would have understood well enough had he known
of that little encounter in the park between Montague
and Chatterton that Sonia was only doing what thou-

IS8 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

sands of women have done and will do again — crushing
into a loveless marriage to save her pride.

He would not have gone to Soma's little dinner had
she not written a note reminding him.

There were eight at the dinner. A bachelor friend
of Montague's and young Courtenay and a very newly-
married couple completed the party.

Young Courtenay had got his new uniform and wore
it now for the first time. The newly-married couple
were too newly married to be really entertaining; the
husband had been a friend of Chatterton's, the wife was
a cousin of Montague's, so their opinions with regard
to Soma's engagement were different.

"I shall never understand why she chucked Chatter-
ton," was the last thing Mr. Newly-wed whispered to
Mrs. Newly-wed as they entered the hotel.

"I dare say she discovered that it was her money
he was after," said Mrs. Newly-wed, airily.

Her husband frowned.

"He was a bit of a slacker, but one of the best . . ."
he declared.

Mrs. Newly-wed said "Pooh I" very charmingly. She
had once been a little in love with Montague herself,
and still thought him one of the nicest men she had
ever known.

"I think she's very lucky to have got Francis," she
said flatly. "He might have had almost any woman
in London. . . ."

So the party was not a very well agreed one, and,
in spite of Lady Merriam's efforts and old Jardine's
valiant assistance, the dinner began to fall a little flat.

Montague alone seemed unconscious of the slight con-
straint that existed; he had had a very busy, as well
as a very thirsty day. He had prematurely "buried the

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 159

latch-key" with a great many acquaintances, and was
excited and talkative as a consequence.

His usually pale face was flushed; his quiet voice was
raised a tone whenever he spoke. He was too openly
attentive to Sonia.

Lady Merriam tried to keep the ball of conversation
rolling; she talked about the war and the weather and
the weather and the war whenever there was a lull.

"I'm tired of the war," Montague announced. "I
should like to forget that there is such a thing."

Young Courtenay fired up. His new uniform had
added to his enthusiastic patriotism. In two minutes he
and Montague were all but quarreling.

Montague's bachelor friend looked on with silent
amusement; he was the sort of man who never ex-
pressed an opinion. He was a very fair, objectionably
inoffensive young man with light eyelashes and an eye-
glass. He stared at Sonia a good deal and drank much

wme.
tt

Oh, let them argue it outl" was all he said when
old Jardine tried to stem the heated tide.

Lady Merriam began to look distressed; she appealed
to Sonia.

"Make them be quiet," she whispered.

Sonia laid her hand on young Courtena^s arm.

"Don't get angry so easily," she said laughingly.

He turned to her; his boyish face was flushed.

"But there can only be one opinion about this matter,"
he objected.

Montague leaned back in his chair; there was an
unpleasant smile on his dark face.

"Leave him alone," he drawled. "This is the eflfect
of the new uniform; it breeds patriotism. . . ." He
looked at Courtenay with an insolent smile. He was

i6o RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

remembering in a vaguely-muddled sort of way that this
smooth-faced boy was a stanch friend of Richard Chat-
terton's. "Why don't you start a recruiting campaign
amongst your friends— eh?" he demanded. "I dare say
you know a few who might do worse than follow your
most worthy example,"

Courtenay flushed.

"Most of my friends have joined something or other ;
those who are able," he said shortly.

Montague drained his glass.

"With one noble exception— eh ?" he said deliberately.
"One noble exception who spends his time trotting pretty
nurses round the park."

Old Jardine choked and nearly dropped his glass;
Sonia looked appealingly at Montague.

"I don't recognize the description," said young Courte-
nay; he had realized at last that this was a deliberate
attempt to pick a quarrel with him — realized, too, that
Montague had had more to drink than was good for him.

"I don't recognize the description," he said again,
more good-temperedly. He blamed himself for having
entered into any argument at all.

But Montague had not finished.

"I am describing your friend Chatterton," he said,
deliberately. "Richard Chatterton, who walks about
with a nurse because he has got a cold, or a headache I
I really forget which . . ."

Young Courtenay sprang to his feet; all his good
resolutions of a moment since had flown to the four
winds ; he was scarlet with rage ; his fists were clenched.

"That's an infernal lie," he said fiercely — "and you
know it. Chatterton was invalided home from the front
three weeks ago. . . ."

A moment of dramatic silence followed the passionate

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C i6i

words; all eyes were centered on the boy's hot, furious
face.

Old Jardine had half risen to his feet ; Lady Merriam
had dropped her wineglass, and the wine was trickling
gaily over the cloth, but she was too excited to notice
or care.

Montague, momentarily sobered by the shock of what
he had inadvertently brought upon himself, was trying
to laugh it off.

Sonia shivered away from him; she turned her eyes
to old J^dine's face.

"Is it — is it true?" she asked.

The old man answered almost testily.

"Of course it is ... of course it is ... he got a
shrapnel wound in the shoulder, but he's nearly well
again now. . . ." He turned to Courtenay angrily. "It's
a pity you can't keep your temper under better control,
young man. . . ."

Secretly he was delighted that the secret was out at
last, but he did not care for the manner of its revelation.

Lady Merriam rushed into the breach.

"I thought everyone knew that dear Richard had en-
listed," she said sweetly. "He has been walking about
London in khaki for some time. . . . You knew, Francis,
surely?" she appealed to Montague.

He began to bluster some reply.

"I thought everyone knew . . . I— er . . ." His eyes
fell before Soma's clear gaze.

Young Courtenay sat down again. He was very red
in the face still beneath old Jardine's rebuke, but there
was an air of delighted victory about him.

The dinner came to a rapid end; it was Sonia who
deliberately changed the conversation; she was by far
the most composed of them all ; only when it was ended.

i62 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

and Courtenay rose to open the door for the ladies,
she looked up at him with a little quivering smile. He
caught at her hand with boyish impulse. . . .

"Sonia . . . I'm— Fm frightfully sorry. . . ." The
words were almost a whisper, but she heard them; she
returned the pressure of his fingers.

"It's all right," she said.

There was a small drawing-room leading from the
private room where they had dined. As soon as the
dividing doors had closed between them the little newly-
wed wife burst out tactlessly:

"How perfectly lovely about Mr. Chatterton having
enlisted! I had no idea — ^had you, Sonia? We all
thought he was rather inclined to show the white feather."

Lady Merriam sat down heavily on a spindle-legged
chair.

"The world is full of fools,'' she remarked rather
vaguely.

Sonia was kneeling on the rug, holding her hands to
the fire. It was a warm evening, but she shivered.

She felt as if she were moving in a dream.

Mrs. Newly-wed came over to where she knelt.

She did not quite understand the situation, but she
was vaguely conscious that there was something behind
it all from which she was being excluded.

"So you're really to be married," she said with a little
giggle. "I am so glad . . . you know I used to be a little
bit in love with Francis myself at one time."

Sonia looked up at her. There was a sort of far-
away expression in her eyes ; she seemed to drag herself
back from a great distance before she answered:

"Did you? ... oh, yes. . . ."

She hardly knew what she was sa3ring. Lady Merriam
came to her rescue by asking for some music. Mrs.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 163

Newly-wed had no more voice than a sparrow, but she
believed she had. She rose with alacrity and went over
to the piano.

She had struggled through a couple of stupid songs
about partings and broken hearts before the men joined
them.

Montague went at once to Sonia. He was pale and
anxious; he had endured tortures during the last fifteen
minutes. He bent over her agitatedly. . . .

"Are you angry with me? ... If you only knew how
sorry I am. I don't know what drove me to make such
a fool of myself. . . .'*

She answered him gravely — even with a little smile.

"I am not angry. Why should I be?"

He sat down beside her with a sigh of relief.

'Young Courtenay was standing with his back to the
fireplace, staring straight before him beneath fiercely-
frowning brows. Lady Merriam touched his foot gently
with her pointed slipper.

"For goodness' sake, sit down; you look like an aven-
ging angel or something. . . ." She spoke in an under-
tone ; when he obediently took the chair next to her, she
went on:

"You quite spoilt my little dinner-party, but I'll for-
give you ; I even think I rather love you for it. . . ."

He did not answer; he felt self-conscious and rather
unhappy. In spite of old Jardine's efforts the evening
dragged horribly; Lady Merriam gave a sigh of relief
when the Newly-weds rose to go.

"Must you really? — so sorry! . . ."

But she was smiling broadly when she came back to
where old Jardine stood.

"What am I to do? Go, or stay?" he asked.

i64 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

He looked across the room to where Sonia sat at
the piano, with Montague at her side.

"Oh, stay," said her ladyship promptly. "At least
stay till Francis goes. . . ."

Sonia was playing a Chopin sonata; conversation was
quite possible under cover of the music.

"What do you suppose she'll do?" old Jardine asked.
"She took it very quietly, I thought. I wish I knew
what is at the back of her mind."

"She may tell me, when you and Francis have
gone. . . ."

But Sonia made no confidence; asked no questions.
She kissed Lady Merriam good night and went oflf to her
own room as soon as the men had left; she sat down
by the fire and leaned her face in her hands.

She sat quite still for a long time without moving;
she felt very tired ; mentally tired — as if she had reached
the end of thought, and could go no farther.

But before her always was the figure of Richard Chat-
terton.

She had thought him a coward, and now he had been,
out to the front, and come back wounded, and she had
not known. . . .

It seemed so strange; and yet — somehow it hardly
mattered.

She was to marry another man, and he . . . she
thought of the pretty nurse with whom she had seen
him in Regent Street

No doubt it was due to her care and skill that he was
now "nearly well" as old Jardine had said.

No doubt in the end he would marry her; a nurse so
often marries a patient . . . she thought of it dully.

It seemed to matter so little.

She did not understand that as yet her heart and

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 165

brain were dulled with shock and bitter jealousy. She
wished she had seen Richard in uniform ; she wished she
had seen him — ^just once 1 . . . She began to cry softly ;
she felt somehow like a child that has been unfairly
cheated out of some pleasure.

Richard had belonged to her first ; it was not fair that
now she was to have no share of pride in him; that he
cared nothing for her approval.

She fell asleep in the big chair, where she sat without
undressing, and sleeping, she dreamed about Richard
Chatterton — dreamt that she saw him lying helpless and
woimded somewhere ; dreamt that she tried to get to him
— tried to call to him, but her mouth was dry and there
was always something that held her back — something
that gripped her arms, and from which she could not
break free. • . .

"Sonia . • . Sonia . . J* Surely that was his voice
calling to her. She struggled again — fiercely . . . and
then she woke ; woke to find Lady Merriam bending over
her.

"Heavens 1 what a fright you've given me!" her lady-
ship exclaimed almost tearfully. "I thought you were
dead until you began to struggle . . . were you
dreaming?"

Sonia sat up; her face was damp with perspiration
and she was trembling.

*'Oh, I had such a horrible dream !" she said, shivering,
and then stopped. How could she tell Lady Merriam that
she had been dreaming of Richard Chatterton?

She tried to laugh it off. The fire was out, and she
was cold in her thin evening frock.

Sunshine filled the room. She caught a glimpse of
her own white reflection in the mirror opposite.

"I must have fallen asleep in the chair — ^how silly J'*

i66 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

She was awake now, and the first fear of what she
had dreamed was slipping away.

Chatterton was in London and alive and well; it was
just a too vivid imagination that had prompted her dream.

But its memory clung to her all the morning; try as
she would she could not quite forget it; she longed to
ask Lady Merriam about Richard. She spent a wretched
morning; when lunch was over she put on her hat and
went out.

She had hardly gone a dozen steps from the hotel
when she met old Jardine ; he was going to call on Lady
Merriam, he told her ; he seemed ill at ease and anxious
to get away from her.

Impulse drove her to speak of last night.

"Why didn't you tell me that Mr. Chatterton had
enlisted ? — You said he had gone to America. . . ." She
tried to speak unconcernedly.

Old Jardine got red in the face.

"It was Chatterton's own wish; he forbade me to teD
you. It was only by the merest chance I discovered it
myself — ^he did it all so modestly; he's only a private,
you know . . . none of your tin-pot commissions for
him. . . ."

"You might have told me. I should have been in-
terested."

She looked away from him as she spoke, though her
voice was quite calm.

Old Jardine rubbed his chin. He was at a loss what
to say next. Sonia made a little movement as if to go
on, then stopped.

"It's very absurd of everyone to think that his name
must not be mentioned in front of me," she said with
a little high-pitched laugh.

"Oh — er — ^yes, exactly!" Old Jardine felt wretched

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 167

There was something painful to him in this girl's ap-
parent callousness when he remembered the expression
of Chatterton's eyes when her name was mentioned.

"Well, well !" he said with an attempt to speak lightly.
"It's all for the best, no doubt. He'll be going back
to the front soon; that arm of his is nearly well. . . ."
He broke off awkwardly; there seemed nothing else to
be said.

Sonia walked away with her head held high.

She wished her wedding day was sooner, that she
might show them all how little she cared.

When presently she crossed the road to the square
where Nelson's Column stands proudly against the sky
a knot of men in khaki were standing on the path talk-
ing and laughing together. She glanced at them and
quickly turned away again; always now she would be
afraid that every uniformed man she met might be
Richard; she thought she would die if she really came
face to face with him. She hurried on.

She did not know where to go, or how to spend the
afternoon.

A motor-omnibus had drawn up at the side of the
road to let some passengers alight. She went towards it.

It was a fine afternoon; she would get on top and
let it take her somewhere — an)rwhere — ^just to kill time;
she went towards the step. . . .

"Passengers oflF first, please," roared the conductor,
barring her way.

Sonia drew back nervously. Some people were com-
ing down the steps from the top of the omnibus: a
young girl with an ultra-smart hat and a pigtail; a boy
with a bundle of papers under his arm. . . . She watched
them disinterestedly.

They were followed by a man in khaki. She could

i68 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

just see his legs and heavy service boots as he hesitated
a moment on the steps to turn and assist someone behind
him — someone — a girl in nurse's uniform; someone.
. . . Sonia caught her breath hard; her eyes flew to the
man as he stepped on to the path beside her — so close
that his khaki jacket brushed her arm; so close that
she almost cried out as she saw his face, and recognized
Richard Chatterton.

And so the thing she had most dreaded had come to
pass, and she was face to face with him once again.

He saw her, and he broke off jaggedly in something
he was saying to the girl at his side, and for a moment
stared at Sonia with blank eyes.

Then a wave of color crept up into his face, which
receded as quickly as it had come, leaving him deadly
pale; his hand went mechanically to the salute. . . .

It ail happened so quickly, then Sonia found herself
blindly obeying the harsh voice of the conductor. . . .

"Hurry up, there — hurry up, please. . . ."

She stepped on to the omnibus, and the next minute
she was whirled away.

She dared not look back; the blood was drumming
in her ears; she had forgotten that she had meant to
go to the top of the omnibus. The inside was crowded,
and she stood there mechanically holding to a strap till
a lad from the comer seat rose and asked her to take
his place.

She sat down with a horrible feeling of weakness;
for the moment she felt stunned and dead. Then pain
woke again in her heart; she began to be conscious of
a chance that had gone forever; she realized now that
there had been an appeal in Richard's eyes. She rose
to her feet — she would go back — she would speak to
him . . . she must — she must!

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 169

The memory of that vivid dream was back upon her ;
supposing it came true and she never saw him again. . . .

With a violent effort she controlled herself ; the omni-
bus was grinding its way up the Haymarket; she would
never find Richard even were she to go back; he would
have gone long ago, mingled with the thousands of other
khaki-clad figures in the London streets.

For the moment she forgot that he had not been alone.
She remembered the fact now with a sudden pang.

This was the second time she had seen him with that
other girl. . . .

Was he always with her? It seemed like it

The conductor came for the fare; she gave him a
shilling.

"Where to, miss?"

She answered vaguely.

"Anywhere — I don't know — a, twopeimy fare."

He looked at her curiously. He counted the change
carefully into her outstretched hand and told her how
far she could go for the fare.

She thanked him absently; she hardly heard what he
said; her whole being seemed straining back to the spot
where she had left Richard Chatterton.

He had looked so splendid in his uniform I In that
one brief glance every detail of his face and person
had been stamped afresh on the heart that had tried
for so long resolutely to shut him out.

He had tanned a little. He was thinner; he wore his
hair much shorter . . . She recounted these little details
to herself almost unconsciously. She had always liked
his hair rather long. Many times he had laughed at her
and inquired if she wished him^to be mistaken for a poet.

She sat with her hands tightly clasped in her lap.
Was there an3rthing that hurt more in all the world thao

170 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

memories, she asked herself drearily. They came
crowding back upon her now so thickly, allowing her
no time to breathe.

Richard — ^Richard — ^Richard • • • a thousand-and-one
little pictures of their brief engagement passed before
her eyes. The first time he had kissed her — and the
last . . . She had never before blamed herself for their
parting; but to-day something in the way Richard had
looked at her in that moment — something in the way his
face had whitened • • • she moved resdessly in her ^
seal. • • •

Oh, if one could only go back I If one could only
have things over again or not at all!

Useless wishes all of them now, when Richard walked
with the pretty nurse, and she was engaged to Montague.

The conductor came to the door and spoke to her.

"Are you going on, miss? . . ."

"Yes — ^no . . .*' She got down hastily, and stood for
a moment irresolute.

Why should she lash herself to pain and remorse?
He cared nothing for her ; he had forgotten her ; already
he had turned elsewhere for amusement. . . .

She walked on quickly. Pain, like a live thing, seemed
to stalk sullenly beside her.

She turned into a shop, and ordered some tea. Her
head was aching badly. It was a relief to get away for
a moment from the noise of the streets. But she was
not left long in peace; a string band at the far end of
the room struck up the song that all London was
whistling . . .

"It's a long way to Tipperary • » * j long way to go. . . .**

Sonia knew the words. They ran through her head
in time to the music.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 171

Silly, sentimental words ; and yet there was something
in their doggerel pathos with which her heart seemed
in sympathy.

She felt the tears smarting to her eyes; hundreds of
brave fellows who had marched out of London to this
same tune, with smiling faces and hearts that beat high
with hope, would never come back again; hundreds of
them had found lonely graves in a strange land. . . .

Supposing some day she heard that Richard were one
of them!

She tried not to think of it; she tried to hold before
her eyes the fact that he was nothing to her — that the
past was dead — ^wiped out and done with; that she was
soon to be the wife of another man. . . . The memory
of Montague steadied her; she remembered, too, that
she and Lady Merriam were going back to Burvale that
night; she rose with a sort of panic, paid for her tea,
and took a taxi back to the hotel.

She realized that she had been out three hours; it
seemed incredible. What would Lady Merriam be think-
ing? Sonia went to her at once.

But Lady Merriam did not seem seriously disturbed.
She was reading a French novel.

Sonia stood in the doorway.

"Aren't you ready? I thought we were going back
to Burvale this evening. . . . I — ^I quite forgot; I'm
sorry. . . ."

"Oh, you needn't apologize, my dear; as you were so
late I sent a wire to tell them we were not coming.
We can go just as well on Monday, and it's very com-
fortable here. Where have you been?"

"I went in an omnibus," said Sonia vaguely.

She could not believe that three hours had really

173 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

elapsed since she left the hotel; she sat down, drawing
off her gloves. • • •

"I have such a dreadful headache." She spoke
almost childishly; she had a longing for someone to
"mother" her. Lady Merriam laid down her book.

"Why not go and lie down till dinner-time? . . .
There's some sal-volatile in my room. . . ."

"Francis said he would be here at seven — ^he was to
go to Euston with us.'*

"Well, he must wait; you'll be seeing enough of each
other soon. ... By the way, Sonia, what would you
like me to wear at your wedding? I shall have to have
something new, I thought gray would be nice. It's a
litde enlarging, I know, but it's a shade I am very
fond of . . . gray taflfeta and a shower bouquet of Parma
violets would be excellent taste."

"I don't mind what you wear; what does it matter?"

"A great deal, I should think; we may as well look
as nice as we can, even though it's to be so quiet. . . ."
Sonia walked out of the room.

Her head was aching violently; she lay down in the
darkness.

She closed her eyes, but she could not shut out the
memory of Chatterton's eyes as they had looked into
hers during that brief moment.

If she never saw him again, that was how she would
remember him all her life; if she never saw him again,
she would carry that memory of him with her to the
grave. Somehow, since she had seen Chatterton in khaki,
her whole outlook of the war had changed.

The fact that he was now one of the fighting men had
invested it with a new terror that somehow eclipsed the
glory.

Once she had said that it was a glorious thing to die

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 173

for one^s country ; but now the very thought of It made
her shake.

She had practically called Chatterton a coward; she
had told him he was not worth quarreling with, and
yet it turned her cold to think of him out there, "some-
where in France," fighting for his life — ^perhaps' badly
wounded — ^lying alone in shot-riven darkness, with no
one to help him, no one to care.

She had listened calmly enough during all these months
to accounts of what others had suffered and gone
through ; not exactly calmly, perhaps, for she had thrilled
with pride at their heroism, and grieved for their suffer-
ing; but she had never felt as she did now, as she lay
with fast-shut eyes in the darkness tortured with im-
aginary horrors that awaited Chatterton.

He was still safe and well in London, but the very
thought of the future seemed to stop her heart.

She rose from the bed and fetched the sal-volatile of
which Lady Merriam had spoken. She took a dose and
fell asleep, but even her sleep was broken by troubled
dreams in which she was always trying to get to Richard
— trying to get to him to help him against some unseen
foe; always herself held back by relentless hands of
iron. . . .

She woke with the tears wet on her face and his name
on her lips. . . .

It was nearly seven o'clock; she had only slept half
an hour — ^but it seemed like the longest night. . . .

She got up and bathed her face, and went across to
Lady Merriam's room; but she was not there. Mr.
Jardine had just come, so the maid said, and her ladyship
had gone down to the sitting-room to speak to him.

Sonia went down the long corridor to the sitting-room ;
she was wearing velvet slippers, and her steps made na

174 RICHARD CHATtERTON, V.C

sound over the thick carpet . • . the door was standing
partly open, and through it she could see old Jardine 3
portly figure and Lady Merriam.

They were both talking eagerly; her ladyship's voice
reached the girl clearly.

"It won't do the least good. She doesn't care for him.
We imagine she does, because we should like her to.
Far better leave her alone. You take my advice for once
in your life."

Old Jardine shook his head ; his face looked troubled.

"It's all very well, but I think she ought to know.
If anything happens — if he never comes back. . . . He
is quite as likely to get another bullet as any other of
the poor lads out there. . . . I'm fond of the boy — ^I'm
almost as fond of him as if he'd been my own son,
and I maintain that Sonia ought to be told. . . ."

Sonia had listened almost unconsciously, but now she
moved forward, pushing open the half -closed door.

"What ought I to be told?" she asked clearly.

Old Jardine started; Lady Merriam swung round.

"How long have you been standing there, pray?" she
asked, a trifle exasperatedly.

Sonia did not seem to hear. She was looking straight
at old Jardine. He came forward and took her hand.

"I did not know you were anywhere about, my dear,"
he said, with a break in his kind voice. "But somehow,
I'm not quite happy in my mind about you ; and if any-
thing happened, and you hadn't been told. . . •"

"If I hadn't been told— what?"

Old Jardine met her eyes without faltering.

"That Richard Chatterton is going back to France to-
night," he said deliberately.

Sonia's fingers tightened a little on old Jardine's
hand, as if for support. There was a little silence in

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 175

the room, then she spoke — rather breathlessly — ^as if she
had been running.

"Going back to France 1 Isn't it rather soon? . . .
Thank you for telling me. ... I hope he will come back
safely. . . ."

She spoke expressionlessly, almost as if she were talk-
ing in her sleep. Lady Merriam turned sharply away;
old Jardine moved his lips as if to speak, then closed
them again with a sort of snap ; someone tapped on the
door; a servant admitted Montague.

The smile on his face faded when he saw who was
there. He nodded rather curtly to old Jardine ; his eyes
went anxiously to Sonia. She had not moved a step to
greet him; one would almost have said that she was
unconscious of his presence.

Old Jardine moved to the door; he was still wearing
his overcoat. He muttered something about it being
time he was off. Lady Merriam followed him out on
to the landing; Montague and Sonia were left alone.

Montague pushed the door to impatiently and came
back to where she stood.

"What is the matter? What was the family council
about ? And why aren't you ready ? I thought you were
going to Burvale to-night."

*'We were, but Lady Merriam changed her mind. . . .
She wants to stay a few days longer."

She did not look at him as she spoke; the fingers
he took lay limp and cold in his clasp.

He searched her face with jealous eyes.

"Why didn't you let me know? And what have you
been doing all day?"

"I went out; I went for a ride on a bus."

Her voice sounded apathetic. Montague laughed.

"It's another day gone, anyway, sweetheart," he said

176 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

softly. "I am beginning to count them; each one that
passes brings our wedding day nearer."

"Each day brings our wedding day nearer . . ." She
echoed his words impassively, almost as if she were say-
ing them to hear how they sounded.

Something in her quiet voice inflamed him. He caught
her in his arms, bending her head back against his
shoulder. He kissed her lips, her eyes, her hair; she
struggled against him, but he held her fast, and then
in a flash of incongruity she remembered her dream.

So had those phantom hands held her — Montague's
hands — ^keeping her back from Richard.

She tore herself free of him.

"Let me go — oh, let me go!"

She ran from the room and down the corridor. Lady
Merriam was stt the head of the staircase, talking to
old Jardine.

Sonia dashed on to her own room ; she caught up the
hat and coat she had thrown off when she came in;
she put them on with trembling fingers; she kicked off
the little velvet slippers and hurriedly found her walking
shoes. It seemed hardly a moment before she was at
the head of the staircase.

Lady Merriam was turning away ; old Jardine was half-
way down. Soma called to him:

"Wait for me— oh, please wait for me . • /*

Lady Merriam screamed:

"Sonia — you must be mad! Come back at once . . ."

But Sonia took no notice; she had caught up with
old Jardine; she was clinging to his arm.

"Take me with you; I know you are going to see
him. I want to come, too ; I must say good-by to him — ^I
must speak to him — even if it 's only one word . . .^'

CHAPTER XV

IT was a miserable night — ^raining fast The streets
seemed even darker than usual. Sonia sat yery
close to old Jardine as they drove away from the
hotel.

It was five minutes to eight when the taxi slowly
threaded its way into the yard at Waterloo. It seemed
to Sonia as if it were thronged with people and vehicles.
Old Jardine let down the window again and shouted
to the driver.

"The other side — ^go round to the other side!"

His voice came back, hoarsely disagreeable.

"We can't get round, sir; there's soldiers going oflF,
and the crowd is something awful I"

Sonia laid her hand on old Jardine*s arm.

"Let us get out and walk ; we shall miss him if we wait"

In another moment they were threading their way
through the crowd.

Somewhere in the distance was the sound of a band
and much cheering ; old Jardine looked at the girl doubt-
fully.

"Let me take you back, my dear; it's sure to be a
most harrowing scene — ^I've been here before. Let me
take you back. . . ."

Sonia shook her head; she could not trust her voice
to speak, but her hand tightened on his arm.

The noise and clamor confused her. As they left the
station yard and entered the hall it seemed to her that

177

178 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

everybody in the world must be crowded into that small
space; a thousand voices talked at once; now and then
part of the crowd broke into a cheer.

Old Jardine buttonholed a heated porter and asked
from which platform the troop train was leaving; but
the porter was deaf, and it was impossible to make him
understand. Old' Jardine lost his temper ; the minutes
were flying, and now all at once he felt as if he must
strain every nerve to bring Sonia and Richard Qiatter-
ton face to face.

A dozen questions brought them no nearer their goal ;
it was past eight, and still the crowd showed no signs
of decreasing. Still the men in khaki came and went,
surrounded by their friends, some with weeping women
clinging to them, some cracking jokes with brothers or
men who had worked side by side with them in a City
office a few short months ago.

"We shall never find him," said Sonia hopelessly.

She had not spoken for some minutes, but there was
something very pathetic about her pale face.

"We will find him," said old Jardine stoutly. They
had reached a part of the crowded hall where there were
comparatively few people; he put her with her back
to the wall.

"If you could stay here a moment, my dear, I think
I could find out more quickly by myself. . . ."

He went away, and Sonia was left alone.

She had never seen anything like this before. She
had often read of the farewell scenes at the different
stations as portrayed by the picturesque pen of a news-
paper man, but somehow she had never realized the
vivid reality of it all; never properly understood the
thrill of mingled pride and anguish that every woman
in that crowd must be experiencing.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 179

She wished old Jardine would came back; she felt
lonely and a little afraid, and the time was racing by —
already the people seemed to have thinned a little, or
was it her imagination?

The distant band had stopped too; somewhere close
to her an officer gave a command in a stentorian voice;
a young soldier with an ugly scar on his cheek but re-
cently healed tore himself from the arms of a weeping
girl; she heard his voice, broken and husky, bidding
a last farewell.

Spnia moistened her dry lips; she was not even to
have this poor comfort; she was not even to be allowed
to see Richard again . . . and then, even as the despair-
ing thought touched her, she saw him across the crowd.

He was taller than many of them. She saw him thread-
ing his way slowly in her direction, and instinctively she
moved towards him.

He had not seen her, she knew that, but it seemed
as if he must know by instinct that she was there —
waiting. . . .

In another moment she would hear his voice — ^perhaps
feel the forgiving clasp of his hand. Someone caught
her arm — old Jardine's voice, a little worried and irri-
table, sounded in her ear. "I told you not to move
. . . you'd be lost in this crowd. ... I found the sta-
tionmaster, and he says it will be No. 5 Platform; we
can -get through if you come with me. . . . Hurry, my
dear — dhurry. . . ."

But Sonia did not move; she tried to tell him that
she had seen Richard, but he did not seem to under-
stand her.

Suddenly she broke loose from his detaining arm.
Already the crowd was again dividing her from that

i8o RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

tall, khaki-clad figure; she pushed her way through the
excited people recklessly. . . .

"Dick . . . Dick. . . ." She thought she called his
name. She must get to him — she must.

Already the stream of uniformed men was passing
through the barrier to the platform. She would never
reach him. Despair settled upon her heart.

For a moment she lost sight of him, and then she
saw him again. He was at the barrier now. She saw
his face distinctly in the glare of light overhead. He
was looking back — ^he was smiling at someone — ^at her.
. . . Was it at her? Had he seen her after all? . . .
She struggled desperately forward, but the crowd closed
in again relentlessly, and shut her out. . . .

A moment . . . now she was free once more. For
another instant she saw him; saw the face she had once
loved so dearly — the face she still loved. . . . With a
sudden shock of revelation she knew that she had never
ceased to love him; that it was because she had always
loved him that she was here now.

She struggled to reach the barrier. Surely they would
let her pass it when she told them — ^when she explained.
But she was pressed back — ^back. . . .

Someone was sobbing next to her — a girl in nurse's
uniform — ^the girl she had twice seen with Richard Chat-
terton. ...

It was for her he had turned and smiled; to her he
had given his last thought. Sonia stood quite still ; the
crowd pressing upon her seemed to be shutting out all
air and light; she closed her eyes dizzily. . . .

A great burst of cheering that seemed to lift the very
roof drowned the noise and clamor of voices. . . .

"Hip, hip, hooray! . . . Hip, hip, hooray!"

Sonia felt as if she were caught up in that great

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V,C i8i

volume of sound and dragged along with it ; for the mo-
ment she went mad. . . .

When she next realized what was happening she was
past the barrier and running along breathless and pant-
ing by the side of the slowly-moving train. . . .

Each carriage window was crowded with faces; men
of all ages — some smiling and cheering, many with the
shadow of parting still haunting their eyes. . . .

Richard must be amongst' them — if she could only
find him . . .

Someone caught her arm ; someone held her fast when
she struggled ... a rough, not unkindly, oiEcial voice
spoke to her. . . .

Sonia looked up blindly; she knew that this was the
end of it all. She put up her hand to her eyes with
a little queer laugh.

"I knew I shouldn't — see — him . . /' she said chok-
ingly ; and then the roar of the train and the great sound
of the cheering seemed to rush at her and carry her down
into darkness.

She could never quite remember what happened after-
wards; she vaguely knew that someone lifted and sup-
ported her — that someone with tender, woman's hands
bathed her face with cold water; and then there was
a long nightmare of a drive in a taxicab with her head
against old Jardine's shoulder, and then . . . blankness
again.

After that she slept — ^a long, heavy sleep of exhaus-
tion, from which she woke to the silence of her bedroom
at the hotel and Lady Merriam's profile silhouetted
against a shaded light. Her ladyship was yawning in-

i82 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

elegantly — a yawn instantly checked when she saw Soniai
move; she was beside her instantly, bending over her,
with motherly solicitude in her face.

"And have you had a nice sleep?" she questioned, as
she kissed the girl's pale cheek. "You look ever so
much better . . ."

Sonia knit her brows ; for a moment she had forgotten
what had happened. ... A barrel-organ out in the street
droning the tune of a patriotic song brought it all back
to her. She closed her eyes as if to shut out that last ^
scene at Waterloo: the cheering and hoarse voices; the
weeping women, and Richard's smiling face — that last
smile that had never been for her. . . .

For a moment she lay still without answering. Lady
Merriam was holding her hand. She went on talking
in her quiet, motherly voice.

"You've been overdoing it lately, my dear. We must
take things quietly for a bit. I just told Francis that
you had gone to your room, and that you were not at
all well and could not see him again. He went away
at once " She paused. Soma's eyes were open again.

"Then — then he doesn't know that I went with Mr.
Jardine? Does anyone know?" she asked faintly.

Now, in the light of remembrance, it seemed a thing
of which she ought to be desperately ashamed. With
a sudden movement she turned and hid her face in the
pillow.

"Nobody knows anjrthing but Jardine and myself,"
Lady Merriam assured her. "Nobody will, unless you
wish it. . . ."

There was a little silence.

'What time is it?" Sonia asked then.

'Six o'clock."

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V,C. 183

"Six!" Sonia knit her brows. "But — but it was past
eight when we were at Waterloo/* she said painfully.

Lady Merriam's kind hand-clasp tightened.

"That was Saturday night," she said. "It is Monday
now. . . ."

"Monday!" There was a little anxiety and disbelief
in Soma's voice; she tried to raise herself from her
pillows, but fell back.

"The doctor gave you something to make you sleep,"
Lady Merriam explained. "If he had not you might
have been very ill. Poor child, I am afraid none of us
have understood what a strain you have had to bear
lately . . ."

Sonia lay very still. Monday night! Then Richard
had been gone two days. . . .

Her heart seemed to faint within her; she lay still;
she asked no more questions, and Lady Merriam thought
her asleep again.

Presently she stole quietly from the room; she met
Montague on the landing outside. He looked worried.

"How is she? Is she awake yet? I don't believe
she ought to have had that sleeping-draught; I distrust
drugs. ..."

"She is awake and much better. . . No— of course
you can't see her," as he asked an eager question. "Do
you realize, my good man, that she has only escaped
brain fever by the skin of her teeth?"

"I can't understand it . . . she seemed well enough
when I came on Saturday night; someone must have
done something to upset or worry her. . . ."

"I shouldn't wonder," said her ladyship drily. "And
if you're going to talk, you'd better come in the sitting-

room."

He followed her frowningly; he had really passed

i84 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

some terrible hours during the last two days. Jt never
occurred to him to doubt or question the story which
Lady Merriam had told him that Saturday night. He
had not seen Sonia join Jardine at the head of the stairs ;
he really believed that she had gone to her room and
fainted after she had left him.

''I shall insist on marrying her as soon as she is able
to be up and about again," he said, following Lady
Merriam. "I shall take her away — ^a sea trip would do
her good."

"I should think it would — ^with all these pirate sub-
marines about," said her ladyship drily. "I should say
you would both have a most exciting time.**

CHAPTER XVI

1ADY MERRIAM always said afterwards that Soma
began to recover in leaps and strides after the
-^ first visit of old Jardine's.

"You're a tonic, you know," she told him affection-
ately. "Sonia began to get well from the moment you
went to see her. However did you manage it?"

Old Jardine laughed, shaking his head.

"Perhaps she wanted cheering up, and I suppose I'm
naturally an old gissip. Anyhow, it's good news that
she's so much better. Has she seen Francis yet?"

"Yes — ^yesterday evening. She seemed very quiet
after he had gone. She told me nothing of what he
had said, but he went away smiling and looking very
pleased, so I suppose he's got his own way with her
for the second time, and the wedding won't be postponed
after all. . . ."

Jardine said "Hiunph!" He took a coujrfe of turns
down the room and came back.

"And what are you going to do with yourself when
Sonia is married and settled?" he asked deliberately.

Lady Merriam was sitting in a low chair; she looked
up into his face, startled. Meeting his eyes, she flushed.

"Heavens !" she said, with pretended flippancy. "What
do you imagine I'm going to do? — Look out for an-
other Sonia, I suppose. I can't afford to sit down and
do nothing. Money has wings, you know, my dear man !"

"And is that the only way of getting money that you
can think of?" he asked, rather sadly.

X85

i86 • RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

Lady Merriam looked up, and Lady Merriam looked
down; there was something in Jardine's eyes that made
her remember him as he had been that summer day,
years ago, when he made his awkward proposal to her.

He had been nervous and red-faced then, but his eyes
had been just as earnest as they were now.

"Is that a riddle?" she asked, trjdng to laugh. "Be-
cause I never was any good at guessing things. I . . ."
she broke off, thrust out her hands with a little breath-
less gasp. "Oh, don't George . . . you take my breath
away and make me feel a perfect old fool!" She rose
to her feet, evading his outstretched hand. She en-
trenched herself behind the table, looking across at him.

"If I were in my teens," she said, "I should say, 'Oh,
this is so sudden' — ^but as it is . . ."

"As it is," he interrupted irascibly, "I suppose you're
going to tell me, as you did years ago, that I am
cut out for a bachelor, and that it would be a shame to
marry me. . . ."

"I wasn't. I . . ." Sonia came into the room. She
looked from one to the other, questioningly, but Lady
Merriam had turned her back, and Jardine's face was
enveloped in the folds of his silk handkerchief.

"Why on earth didn't I say 'yes' and have done with
it ?" her ladyship was asking herself vexedly. "Now it's
all got to be gone through again. . . ."

But Sonia had noticed nothing unusual — she was too
occupied with her own thoughts.

The wedding was not to be postponed after all, as
Lady Merriam had guessed, but it had not been Mon-
tague's persuasions that had brought about the desired
result. Sonia herself had opened the subject as soon
as he came into the room the previous evening.

He had been all tender solicitude. . • .

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 187

' "And you are really, really better?'' he asked, with
fond anxiety, holding her a little from him, and looking
anxiously into her face- "Sonia, you don't know how
I've worried about you, and they would not let me
see you. ... Do you know that you've got very thin?"
He closed his own fingers about hers caressingly.

Sonia laughed a little nervously.

"Have I? Perhaps it's an improvement. But we
don't want to talk about that. I'm quite well now."

She drew away from him and went back to her chair
by the fire. "I wanted to speak to y^u," she said, a little
hesitatingly. "Lady Merriam and everyone seems to
think that my — our wedding ought to be put off. . . ."
She stopped; her voice was not quite steady.

Montague bit his lip. He nearly blurted out that Lady
Merriam was an interfering old fool.

He put on his most mournful expression.

"If you wish it, dearest, of course. . . ."

She interrupted him eagerly.

"But I don't . . . indeed I don't ... I would much
rather keep to the first arrangement and have the wed-
ding — ^just very quietly — ^as we have said we would.^
• . . I— -oh — ^please don't . . ."

He had dropped on his knees beside her, and wa&
covering her hands with kisses.

Sonia looked away from him as she went on speak-
ing. ...

"So, if you don't mind, I think well let everything,
go on just as if nothing had happened — ^just as if I had
never been ill at all. . . ."

"Mind!" He was beside himself with delight; his
dark face had flushed up.

Sonia felt that she hated herself; it was not being;;
fair to him — it was not playing the game.

i88 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

He was giving her everything — ^she was giving noth-
ing; even the money Richard Chatterton had coveted
was of no use to this man. He had plenty of his own;
he had no love for Burvale, he found it dull and quiet.

She drew her hand from his.

"So it's all settled then, and . . . and now I want
to ask you something else; something I am afraid you
won't like very much. . . .'*

He bent and kissed her hair.

"Try me and see . . ."

She moved her head sharply; that had been a little
fond habit of Richard's — ^to drop a light, almost care-
less kiss on her hair; it was odd how alike these two
men were in small things: their voices— even their man-
ner of love-making.

**There is nothing in the world I would not do for
you,!^ Montague said.

She smiled, shaking her head.

*'It isn't anything very great . . . it's only — I would
so much rather we did not see each ether again till —
till . . ."

He finished the sentence for her

"Till your wedding day." He put his arm round her;
he was too happy to see any serious import in her request.
"Very well, it shall be as you wish, sweetheart, though
it's rather cruel! What shall I do with myself all
the time?" He gave a mock sigh.

"It will soon pass," she told him. "And you '11 be
so pleased to see me next week. . . ."

He caught her hand.

^'Pleased? Can you not find a better word than that?**

She looked away from his ardent eyes; there were
tears in her own. She turned to him with a little im«
pulsive gesture.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 189

"I wish you didn't love me so much. ... If you could
see into my heart "

''If it held love for me, I should not mind what else
were there," he told her.

He went away happy and smiling; at the door he
turned and came back to where she stood by the table,
irresolute and unhappy.

He put his arms round her gently, and bending kissed
her very tenderly.

"I shall think of you every minute till we meet again,"
he said. . . .

Then he was gone.

"A very wise arrangement," so Lady Merriam said
when Sonia told her that she was not to see Montague
again till their wedding day. "A man is a perfect nui-
sance dangling about one's skirt all day. I know the

next time I - gtt married I " she broke oflf in fine

confusion.

Sonia laughed.

"Is that a confession?" she asked.

Lady Merriam tried to look dignified, but failed utterly,
and tears came to her eyes instead.

"I suppose you think because I'm stout and middle-
aged it's unlikely that anyone would want to marry
me," she said rather pathetically. "But I can assure
you . . ."

"Sonia arms went round her with warm affection.

"And I can assure you, too," she said, "that there
is at least one man who worships the ground you walk
on, and thinks you the most marvelous woman in all the
world."

Lady Merriam wiped her eyes and smiled.

"Such nonsense!" she declared.

190 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

Montague went out of town the following day.

"If I stay anywhere near you I shall break my word
and be calling every day. . . ." So he wrote to Sonia.
^*So I 'm going to put myself beyond temptation and
go down into the country. Not that I love lanes and
hedges, as you know, but Barclay — you remember him?
— has a nice place in Hertfordshire, and it will kill
time. ..."

Barclay was the Mr. Newly-wed who had married
Montague's cousin.

Sonia was glad he had gone; it was a relief to feel
that she had these last few days left free ; almost guiltily
she took off the diamond ring he had given her and
put it away in a drawer.

Just for these days she would forget all that had hap-
pened during the past fateful weeks.

The weather had turned almost warm again; the
mornings were bright and sunny; she walked in the
park a great deal with Lady Merriam's Pekingese pups ;
she hardly ever looked at a newspaper now ; at the back
of her mind was a dread that one day if she looked
she would find Richard Chatterton's name in those ter-
ribly long lists; that one day someone would stop her
heart-beats with carelessly-spoken words . . .

"Chatterton's been shot — did you know? . . . poor
fellow. Dick Chatterton, who was to have married Sonia
Markham . . ."

She lived under tremendous tension in those days.
She felt as if every moment she were preparing herself
for some such terrible shock — that some day the blow
would fall and crush her to the ground.

But she kept her fear to herself. Lady Merriam never
guessed for a moment the dread that lived with her

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 191

night and day ; even Jardine began to feel happier about
her and to make up his mind to the inevitable.

And then, one morning, Sonia met old Jardine in the
park. A winding turn in a shrubbery pathway brought
her face to face with him and a girl who walked by
his side — a girl in nurse's uniform. . . .

Jardine gave a delighted chuckle when he saw Sonia i
he hurried forward eagerly.

"We were just talking about you, my dear. What
a lucky chance ! I have always wished you two to meet.
This is Nurse Anderson — Sonia."

Sonia tried to smile, but she hardly knew what she
said; for the girl looking at her with diffident interest
in her eyes was the girl whom she had three times seen
with Richard Chatterton.

She acknowledged the introduction with nervous haste.

"It was so kind of you to think of me ; I love violets ;
Mr. Jardine has told me how good you were that
night in the station I was ill. I am so glad to be able
to thank you myself. . . ."

Her voice was jerky and disconnected ; the color came
and went in her cheeks.

Old Jardine looked on smilingly; he thought he had
never seen two prettier girls than Sonia and Nurse
Anderson.

Nurse Anderson had known all along that this was
the girl Richard Qiatterton loved; once he had inad-
vertently spoken her name, and she had remembered it^

"Sonia Markham !" . . . There was something ro-
mantic about it, she had thought then with a little twinge
of jealousy.

The little nurse stifled a sigh as she drew the folds
of her gray cloak more closely about her slim figure.

192 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

What chance had she ever had against this girl? How
could a man — Shaving once loved Sonia — ever be expected
to give another a serious thought?

Sonia tried to make conversation; she deliberately led
it rotmd to the subject of nursing.

"I suppose you are looking after wounded soldiers
now?" she said, trying to speak carelessly. "I wish I
could do something like that ; but one hears such terrible
tales about amateur nurses."

"Some of them are quite good and very kind," Nurse
Anderson answered quickly. "There is one lady I know
— a titled lady — who just does anything she is asked
and never complains; why, I have seen her scrubbing
floors with her sleeves rolled up, just like any ordinary
probationer."

"The women of England have done wonders — ^wonders
— since this terrible war broke out," said old Jardine.

"Nothing compared with what the men have done,"
answered Nurse Anderson with quiet enthusiasm. "If
you could see them as I have, Miss Markham, many of
them crippled for life, and yet so cheerful — never com-
plaining, and even trying to make jokes . . . oh, I think
it 's wonderful . . . Have you anyone at the war? Most
people have someone, I think."

"I have no one — ^no relations, that is," Sonia answered
rather constrainedly. "I haven't any brothers or sisters
... I know a lot of men who have gone, though, of

course. . . ."

"Both my brothers are out there," said Nurse Ander-
son proudly. "One of them was wounded last August,
but not badly, and he went back again. . . . He says
he wishes I could be sent out there to one of the hospitals.
I wish I could, too."

**You can do quite as good work in London," said

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 193

Jardine kindly. "From what I hear, you're invaluable;
why Chatterton said "

He broke oflf with a sort of ga^.

Sonia was a little pale, but she looked at Nurse Ander-
son smilingly.

"Then it was you I saw with Mr. Chatterton in Regent
Street one day! I thought I recognized you. I know
him very well, you know. . . ."

To hear her, no one would have guessed the effort it
cost her to speak.

The little nurse was looking straight ahead of her.

"And he is quite well again, is he not?" Sonia asked
again. "He has gone back to the front . . .?"

"Yes ... I saw him off that night at Waterloo — ^the
night you were ill.'* The answer came a little nervously.
"I suppose you had been to see a friend, too?"

Sonia tried to answer, but the words seemed to stick
in her throat; she thought she would die of shame if this
girl even suspected that her faintness had in any way
been connected with Chatterton. Jardine rushed to the
rescue :

"Yes, we had ... a nice lad Sonia and I both knew

very well. But we didn't see him, after all, though we

did our best. There was such a crowd, you know. . . ."

' He was horribly sorry for Sonia; it seemed as if she

were always being hurt through his own blundering.

When they reached the Park gates he stopped de-
liberately.

"I am going back to the hotel with you, if I may,"
he said to Sonia. "And I think Nurse Anderson goes
in the other direction."

"Yes — I shall have to hurry, or I shall be late."

She turned to Sonia.

194 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

*'I am so pleased to have met you," she said im-
pulsively.

There was something very girlish and unaffected about
her; Sonia held out her hand.

"Perhaps you will come and have tea with me one
day," she said, a little breathlessly. "I don't know what
hours you have free, but almost any time will suit me
, . . any time during the next week- . . ." she added,
quickly remembering how very short was the nimiber of
days left to her of freedom.

"I have to-morrow afternoon," said Nurse Anderson
hesitatingly. "Next week I am on duty in the afternoon.
If to-morrow would do . . .**

"Come to-morrow, by all means.**

The two girls shook hands, and Sonia walked away
with Jardine.

The old man avoided looking at her; his eyes were
downbent and moody.

Sonia slipped her hand through his arm.

"Don't be angry with yourself," she said gently. "I
don't mind . . . it's all over and done with."

He broke out into self-blame.

"I don't know what 's come over me lately. I had
no idea she was at Waterloo to see Dick off. I'd have
cut my tongue out rather than have introduced you if
I had known that. . . ."

She tried to laugh.

"Oh, but why? Surely he may have someone to see
him off if he wishes, and I don't wonder he likes her;
she's so pretty — so — ^unaffected."

Old Jardine jerked his arm free.

"What do you mean?" he asked, almost roughly.
"Chatterton doesn't 'like' her — if by that you mean some-

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 195

thing much stronger. ... A pack of nonsense ! There's
only been one woman in Dick's life, and there'll never
be another. . . . I'm getting old, that's what it is; if
I'd been younger and more sensible I suppose I should
have put two and two together and guessed what took
her to Waterloo that Saturday. . . ."

She gave his arm a little squeeze.

"I haven't learned anything fresh this afternoon," she
said, rather constrainedly. "I — ^I saw her myself . . .
saying good-by to — to Mr. Chatterton ; at least — she was
crying, and he turned . . . just at the barrier, and smiled
at her ..." She broke off desolately. She would have
given her soul for that smile.

"I shall be really cross with you if you look so angry,"
she went on bravely. "After all, everything that has
happened is my own doing. I — I deliberately chose to
— to marry Francis, and this time next week . . ." She
hesitated for a second, catching her breath with a little
sound almost of pain. "This time next week there won't
be any such person as Sonia Markham any more. You'll
all be rid of me once and for ever."

Old Jardine could not fall in with her mood.

"If you talk like that," he said fiercely, "I shall get
up in church and forbid the banns. . • ."

But his heart felt very heavy.

He left her at the hotel, though she pressed him to
come in.

"Lady Merriam will be awfully disappointed," she
warned him.

"Not she!" said old Jardine. "She thinks I'm an
old bore, and she's quite right — so I am. . . ."

"Mr. Jardine !" But he was gone, walking away down
the road at a great rate, and Sonia went into the hotel
alone.

196 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

Lady Merriam was having a solitary tea. Sonia
thought her eyes went past her as she opened the door
rattier as if she expected to see someone else.

"Alone?" she asked

"Yes — I met Mr. Jardine in the park, and that little
nurse who helped me when I was ill — you remember ? I
asked her to come to tea to-morrow. . . ."

"Really! Isn't that rather foolish? You know noth-
ing about her?"

"I didn't ask for references, certainly," Sonia agreed,
rather dryly. "But Mr. Jardine seemed very friendly
with her. He introduced us. , . ."

"Oh, did he?" There was something tart in Lady
Merriam's voice. She took up her book again.

"I asked him to come in and see you," Sonia went
on wickedly. "But he wotildn't. He said that he knew
he bored you to tears. . . ."

"Sonia!"

"He did indeed, or something very much like that
I thought, perhaps, you had quarreled. . . ."

Lady Merriam dropped the book to the floor.

"People of my age don't quarrel," she said. "And
I'm sure I've never had a cross word with George
Jardine in all my life. . . ."

Sonia poured herself some tea.

"Well, he wotddn't come in, that's all I know . . ."
she said meekly.

"As if it matters!" quoth her ladyship with great
superiority . . .

There was something pathetic in the trouble Sonia
took with her toilet the following afternoon; she was
half ashamed of herself for being so anxious to look
her best, and yet . . • she dressed and redressed ho:

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 197

hair half a dozen times, and changed her frock twice
before she could decide which to wear.

"I suppose I'm getting horrid," she thought rather
wistfully at last, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

She turned resolutely away, and finally, when the little
nurse was announced, Sonia was waiting her in her
most simple frock, instead of one of her most beautiful
as she had planned.

"I've come, you see," said Nurse Anderson, a little
nervously.

She cast a swift glance round the room ; she had been
prepared to find everything very elaborate and rather
overpowering; she was relieved by Soma's plain frock
and the almost friendly manner in which she greeted her.

It had been raining a little; there were drops of wet
on her gray cloak and long veil; she took them off at
Sonia's request and gave them to an attendant maid.

She looked even younger without her bonnet. When
they were alone Sonia asked an impulsive question.

"How old are you ? You look quite a little girl. . . ."

Nurse Anderson blushed.

"I'm twenty-six," she said. "But everyone tells me I
look younger."

The little confession seemed to smooth away any re-
maining awkwardness; presently they were chatting to-
gether as if they had known one another for months
instead of hours.

The little nurse was full of the war and her work;
she told Sonia many incidents of pluck and patience that
had come under her own care. She had boundless en-
thusiasm for the soldiers she had nursed.

"I suppose you get a lot of little confidences," Sonia
said rather wistfully. She felt herself useless beside
this energetic worker.

198 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"Some of the men like to talk to us," said Nurse
Anderson, "But others say very little. It depends on
temperament, I suppose . . . but I often tliink that tlie
less a man says the more he feels." She looked at Sonia
with a little flush in her cheeks and her eyes sparkling.
"The women are so brave, too," she went on. "Some
of them come to the hospital to see their sons and
husbands, but they never show what they are feeling —
or they try hard not to. They smile and try to be cheer-
ful. . . ."

I suppose all the men have friends to see them?"
No — some don't seem to have any ; they are the ones
I feel most sorry for — the 'lonely soldiers/ as someone
has called them. We had one who came over with the
Canadians ... he hadn't a single friend in England.
Mr. Chatterton . . ." She broke off, flushing a little.

"Yes — ^Mr. Chatterton . . ." echoed Sonia. She had
been longing, yet dreading, to hear his name spoken.
"What about Mr. Chatterton?"

"I was only going to say that he was so good to this
man; he did everything he could for him to help him
and cheer him up. . . ." She paused. "We missed him
dreadfully when he went away," she added, rather sadly.
There was a little silence ; the thoughts of both girls had
flown to Richard Chatterton as they had seen him last,
turning at the barrier to smile good-by to one of
them. . . .

Sonia would have given her soul for that last smile
of His. The thought hammered dully against her heart.
She clasped her hands hard in her lap to hide their
trembling; she kept her eyes steadily averted from little
Nurse Anderson ; for the moment she felt that she hated
her because that last memory of the man they both loved

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. i99

belonged to her alone. The man they both loved!
Richard Qiatterton, the laggard, who at that moment
was standing wai^t-deep in a trench of mud and water,
fighting for his life and the honor of England!

CHAPTER XVII

TO Richard Chatterton, steaming slowly out of
scene of bustle and farewell at Waterloo had
London in the crowded troop train, the whole
seemed like a dream.

At the last ever3rthing had been so rushed and hur-
ried ; the few hours' notice of departure, the race round
London to say good-by to those few of his friends who
still cared to hear of his welfare, had blunted the edge
of departure and given him no time for serious thought.
But at that last moment, turning at the platform barrier
to smile a last good-by to little Nurse Anderson, the
tragedy of it all had struck him with full force.

He was going — really going back to those scenes of
horror and death; this might be the last time he ever
trod English soil, this might be his last glimpse of Lon-
don. Life, which a few short weeks ago had stretched
before him so full of hope and promise, might end now
in a few days — even a few hours — ^in an unknown and
unmourned grave.

Little Nurse Anderson, brushing the tears from her
eyes to be better able to see him to the very last, saw
the sudden fading of his determinedly cheery smile — saw
a sort of forlorn hesitancy in his whole bearing before,
with an, obvious effort, he squared his shoulders and
turned away.

She would have been hurt to the soul could she have
known that Chatterton's thoughts were something very

200

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 201

different; that he was thinking with a sort of horror
of his world that had turned upside down.

Why was he going away like this without a word of
farewell from the one he loved most in all the world ? —
why was he hesitating here at the last moment of all, to
smile back at a stranger woman for whom he cared
nothing?

Sonia — ^why was she not here? Why had hers not
been the last eyes to smile a brave good-by to him?
Her voice the last to whisper a broken "Grod speed . . ."?

He was going back to France — ^back to those awful
trenches, where every day hundreds of gallant lives were
being cut down by the sickle of death ; where the flower
of England's manhood was facing the horrors of mutila-
tion and suffering indescribable hardships.

He looked round at the faces of the other men in
the crowded carriage. Many of them were mere boys,
smooth-faced and full of courage. They were laughing
and chatting together, trying perhaps to hide their true
emotions.

One — a lad in his teens — ^was tr3ring to scribble some-
thing on a picture postcard with an old stump of pencil,
but the jolting of the train jerked his arm and made it
almost impossible for an indifferent writer to pen any
words.

He looked up with a little exclamation of annoyance
and met Chatterton's friendly gaze.

"She couldn't come and see me off, so I thought I'd
send her a card," he explained, taking it for granted
that Chatterton knew to whom he referred.

"Your mother?"

"Yes, she's getting old now, poor old soul."

A burst of noisy laughter put an end to the conversa-
tion. One man — a snub-nosed, twinkling-e3red youngster

202 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

— ^had let down the carriage window and was calling to

a mate in the next compartment . . .

"Are you there. Snuffy?"

The answer was carried away by the wind and speed
of the train ; the man drew back into the carriage again.

"He wants to know if we're right for Berlin/' he
informed his companions with a wink. "Not 'alf, eh?*^

A roar of laughter followed ; someone started a snatch
of song, which was taken up hilariously; it was an old
song that had been at the height of its popularity at
the time of the South African War, but its tune was
catchy, and the sentimental words suited the occasion as
well as any other:

"Good-bye, my Bluebell — farewell to you —
One last long look into your eyes of blue . . P

The song proved popular — soon all in the carriage were
roaring it at the top of powerful lungs.

Chatterton leaned back in his comer and, pulling his
cap over his eyes, feigned sleep.

He was in no mood to join this cheerful rowdyism.
He liked the men well enough; some of them had been
out in France with him before, and he knew them all
for jolly good fellows; but just now he was heart-sick
and down on his luck, and felt like a sick dog who
wants to crawl away into a comer and hide.

They let him alone ; perhaps deep down in their hearts
they knew and sympathized with what he was feeling;
it was purely a difference in temperament that made them
shout and sing to cover their own emotions. . • •

The train thundered on into the night, with every
forward onrush carrying them farther from London.
Chatterton's thoughts went back to Sonia again with,
sick longing.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 203

If he could only just have spoken to her once.

He did not fear deaths but it struck him to the soul
to know that perhaps he might have to go out without
having said good-by to the woman he loved.

A great sigh broke from him. He pushed back his
cap and looked down the carriage.

It was stuffy and smoky now. The men were all
puffing cigarettes that had been showered on them by
patriotic enthusiasts at Waterloo. Chatterton let down
the carriage window a little impatiently and stared out
into the flying darkness.

There were fewer lights dotting the cotmtryside now.
Streets and houses were slipping away; meadows and
dark belts of trees stretched from the railway for miles.
Chatterton drew a deep breath. . . ,

It was England still — England that he loved — ^but the
miles were slipping away so fast. . . .

At his back someone had asked an absurd riddle. . . .
"What did the earwig say when it fell off the wall?"

Unconsciously he found himself listening to the ab-
surdity. It seemed impossible that men who could laugh
and jest as these were doing could really be going out
to scenes of carnage and bloodshed. An onlooker would
have thought them light-hearted boys on their way to
a holiday. He looked back at them across his
shoulder. . . .

"What did the earwig say when it fell off the wall?"

A string of preposterous guesses were fired at the
questioner from all sides ; each was greeted with a fresh
roar of laugher.

In spite of himself, Chatterton laughed with them.

"What did the earwig say?" he inquired interestedly.

Everyone looked towards him. . . .

"Thought you were asleep, old man. . . • Have a cig?*'

204 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

Chatterton took one; after all, what was the use of
keeping aloof and brooding over what might have been ?

If only a few -days of life were left to him, far better
make the most of them and die game. . . .

He tried to join in with their chaffing and laughter,
but it was a tremendous effort • . .

"Sonia — -Sonia . . •"

Her name rippled through his mind like running music ;
like a haunting tune which one has heard and cannot
forget.

Perhaps soon old Jardine would take her that last
ietter of his . ^ . perhaps soon — he tried to shake off
the morbid trend of thought . • • tried to force himself
to listen to a story one of his companions was relating;
a lively story of a skirmish in South Africa ... he
caught up the thread and tried to concentrate his at-
tention. . . .

". . . There was a Boer girl there — 2l mighty pretty
girl, too, with lots of hair and the bluest eyes you ever

saw. . . ."

His attention wandered again. When next he found
iiimself listening one of the men opposite was addressing
him. . • .

"By the way, Chatterton — ^there was an old buffer at
Waterloo looking for you. Did you see him? Came
up to me in a great state of mind — streaming with per-
spiration and very angry with everybody. Said he'd
been waiting at the station half an hour."

Chatterton sat up with sudden attention.

"Looking for me? What sort of old buffer?"

"Oh, nice old boy — red-faced, and wearing a pot hat.
Shook hands with me and wished me good luck. I
promised to send you along in his direction if I saw

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 205

you, but I didn't. . . . Sorry you missed him ; he seemed
very anxious — said he had a lady with him. . . ."

"A lady . . ." said Chatterton sharply — so sharply that
a chorus of good-natured "Oh! oh*s!" greeted him

He jerked his head impatiently.

"A lady — did you see her?" he asked tensely.

"Yes — I did — she was a little in the background, but
I had a look at her. . . . Dressed in black, she was —
rather pale — I noticed her eyes particularly. . . .*'

"Yes. . . ." Chatterton tried hard to steady his voice,
but there was a little agitated thrill in it. "You — ^you
didn't hear her name, I suppose?" he asked painfully.

The other laughed rather self-consciously.

"Well — ^yes, I did hear it — I noticed it particularly
because it was rather uncommon. . . . The old chap
called her 'Sonia.' "

For a moment Chatterton's heart seemed to stand still ;
then it raced on again at such a pace that he could
hardly breathe.

"Sonia. . . ." He leaned across the carriage to the
man opposite him. . . . "You are sure — sure . . . you
are not making a mistake?"

The man looked slightly surprised, then a little em-
barrassed. . . . He did not know Chatterton very well,
and it is always embarrassing to an Englishman to
stumble across the sentimental side of another man.

"I am quite sure," he reiterated. "It's a name one
wouldn't be likely to forget ; I have never heard it before."

Chatterton mastered himself with an effort; he tried
to look and speak casually, but there was a note of
desperate eagerness in his voice which he could not al-
together suppress.

"They were looking for me," he said again. "You are
sure they were looking for me . . .?"

2o6 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"Positive! The old chap mentioned you by name —
'Chatterton/ he said — ^'tall chap— been invalided home
once already. . . *** The speaker hesitated ; then went
on, avoiding Chatterton's eyes. "He also said that he
had come to the station with a lady who was most
anxious to speak to you before the train went . . . I —
I'm beastly sorry I couldn't find you/' he added lamely.
^*But there was such a devil of a crush-^ — "

"Yes, there was a crush." Chatterton echoed the
words vaguely.

Sonia had come to Waterloo to see him! Sonia had
been there all the time. . . . Why had he not known it?
Why had not some instinct warned him of her nearness ?

Was this story a true one or was there even now some
great mistake?

He was afraid to hope — ^almost afraid to think. He
leaned his elbow on the narrow carriage sill and passed
a hand dazedly over his eyes.

The man opposite watched him curiously. He had
heard various little stories about Chatterton, but then
one heard tales about most of the men, and they were
generally untrue; but he was sorry if Chatterton had
really wanted to see this girl with the quaint name. He
looked away awkwardly.

Chatterton had forgotten his existence. There was
an awful feeling of rebellion and bitter disappointment
in his heart.

The carriage had grown comparatively quiet; one or
two of the men had fallen asleep, and the exuberant
spirits of the rest had sobered somewhat; perhaps they
were all realizing how quickly the fleeing miles were
dragging them towards the unknown.

Two men next to him were talking in rather subdued
tones ; Chatterton caught a phrase here and there.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 207

"I told her if I never came back . . ."

It was in all their minds then^ the same thought, but
now Chatterton was no longer content to face it philo-
sophically.

He must come back; the keen desire to live had been
rekindled in him during the last few minutes; he must
come back — if only to ask Sonia why she had come to
Waterloo.

In spite of himself, Chatterton's mind leapt forward;
already in the future that had seemed so utterly void
of sunshine a little while since he could distinguish a
golden ray of hope. . . .

Perhaps some day . . . but he dared go no farther.

There were so many questions he was burning to ask
the man opposite, to whom old Jardine had spoken —
he was sure it must have been he from the description
— ^but natural reserve and self-consciousness prevented
him.

A half smile crossed his face as he realized the utter
absurdity and impossibility of asking this stoic Briton
the many questions that clamored for utterance at the
door of his heart.

"How did she look? Had she been crying? . . . Do
you think she was unhappy?"

The man would think him a lunatic. . . .

If he had only seen her — ^if just for an instant his eyes
had met hers across that emotional, throbbing crowd!

But it was not to be; one had to be philosophical in
these matters and accept with a grin what Fate of'
fered.

Once, meeting the eyes of the man opposite, he blurted
out:

"You're quite sure you didn't make a mistake? It
was I who was asked for ^ • •?"

2o8 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

He flushed up sensitively as he spoke, although for
the life of him he could not have kept the question back.

The other man had almost forgotten the incident, but
he answered sympathetically:

"I am quite sure — he asked for 'Chatterton* dis-
tinctly. . . ."

"Thanks — ^thanks very much — ^I wish I'd seen
him. . . ,'*

The words came jerkily; Chatterton leaned back in
the comer and shut his eyes.

But how could a man sleep when his heart was throb-
bing enough to burst his ribs ?

He was glad when the journey ended and the train
ran on to the harbor. The sound of the sea came through
the night with a sort of sullenness; the stiff, salt breeze
struck chill and made him shiver in his warm coat.

It was very dark everjrwhere. The men stood huddled
together, waiting orders.

Now and then an officer shouted a command in an
irascible voice. No doubt many of them were con-
trasting this chill discomfort with the homes they had
left behind them; no doubt many were thinking with a
sort of dread of the worse discomforts to which they
were moving on.

And yet most of the men seemed cheery enough. They
made light of the weary waiting, and joked and laughed
together as they puffed at their pipes and cigarettes.

The man who had sat opposite Chatterton in the train
stood now beside him.

"Not exactly cheerful, is it?" he said, with a little
shiver.

Chatterton laughed. He had been thinking the same
thing himself.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 209

"We shall be getting along directly/* he said. He
hunched his shoulders a little deprecatingly.

He was thinking of the life he had been content to
lead all these years, untroubled and luxurious. It seemed
a century ago that he had been shaved by Carter and
been annoyed if the man had insufBciently creased his
trousers.

Chatterton suddenly recalled a morning in France be-
fore he got his wound ; he had been on patrol duty round
a huddled mass of sleeping men.

It had been getting light, and in the first gray dawn the
surrounding country had looked singularly beautiful.
An old farmhouse stood close by on the right, with a
belt of tall trees, and a wood beyond. But for the sleep-
ing soldiers on the ground one would never have believed
that the most ghastly war the world has ever known
was raging almost within a stone's throw. They had
gone forward during the day; information had come in
that there were enemy trenches on the other side o£
that farm. There followed hours of dogged fighting and
bloodshed; hours made hideous by the screech of shells
and endless "Ping! ping!" of falling bullets.

How any of them had lived had seemed marvelous
then; it seemed strange that some should seem to have
almost charmed lives, whilst others dropped with the
first bullet that came their way. And at night they had
come back ; back past the old farmhouse, but, then, so
different-looking to what it had been when he had
watched its mystic shape steal through the gray dawn.
Beautiful trees were leveled to the ground; the field
and wood beyond were strewn with dead and dying; a
piteous scattering of gray and khaki-clad figures.

And, but for the grace of God and the stubborn

2IO RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

bravery of a hundred thousand men something like this
might have come to England.

Oh, it was worth while a million times over going
through the cold and discomfort and horror to safeguard
one's Motherland.

Another order was given, and Chatterton picked up
his pack and went on with the long stream of men,
down the wind-blown harbor to the ship waiting for
them beyond.

Standing on the crowded deck, he looked back to-
wards the dim lights of the land they were leaving —
towards London.

Would he ever see it again . . .?

A little ironical laugh died in his throat. . . •

The night wore away; the crowded ship ploughed on-
ward across the dividing waters ; the last faint light from
the shore blinked and went out.

All around lay unbroken darkness ; even the stars had
hidden their faces behind the clouds, as if shrinking from
the sight of gallant men on their way to face death.

For the most part the men were silent, but some of
the more irrepressible spirits had gathered below and
were joking with each other.

A man close to Chatterton in the darkness was
whistling some popular choruses. He was leaning on
the rail, coat collar turned up to his ears, staring down
at the dark sea. • . .

"We shouldn't stand a blooming earthly if one of those
Jolly Rogers was to come along now," he said suddenly,
addressing nobody in particular.

He spoke with a decided Cockney twang, and went
on whistling cheerily enough as soon as he had delivered
himself of the speech.

After a moment he went on:

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 211

'Well, if the Germans take a fancy to me there's
the missus and five kids for the Government to look
after/' he said with a sort of chuckle.

Chatterton looked down at him, but all he could see
was a squarely built, rather short figure huddled in the
depths of a big coat.

"You're married, then?" he asked.

The other laughed. ...

"Married ! Lordy ! I should say I was ! . . . Many's
the up and a downer we've had — ^me and the missus
... it makes you sort of sorry now." He stopped
rather abruptly.

After a moment he moved away, but Chatterton heard
his cheery whistle starting again as he disappeared into
the darkness.

It was forty-eight hours later when he next heard
that voice with the Cockney twang — weaker now, but
with the same irrepressible cheeriness.
' "The missus and five^kids for the Government to look
after. . . ."

It was night again, and a steady downpour of rain
was making liquid mud in the trenches where Chatterton
stood — a unit in a solid line of khaki.

For the past eight hours he had seen men dropping
all around him — seen broken limbs and shattered bodies,
and witnessed the bravery with which Englishmen can
bear agony . . . but something in the voice of this little
Cockney touched him as nothing else had done.

The poor "missus" and the five little kids ! And they
were only one of thousands of such little families thrown
into the cold arms of charity!

The man next to him in the trench spoke suddenly:

"You came out with the — th draft, didn't you?"
He was coolly reloading his rifle.

212 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"Yes."

"From London?"

"Yes ... I was with the — ^nth Guards. . . /'

There was a little pause; the rifle snapped again.

"I knew a chap who came with them," said the other
man after a moment. "Fellow named Carter . . . decent
sort. Know him?"

"Carter !" Chatterton echoed the name sharply. "Yes,
I know him. He was my . . ." He stopped. "I knew
him well," he went on then, "Where is he — is he still
here?"

"He was shot last night — ^mortally, they said — ^but I
don't know for certain."

CHAPTER XVni

WHEN Sonia went to bed the night following
Nurse Anderson's visit to the hotel she stood
for a long time looking out into the darkness.

The rain had ceased, and a soft breeze blew from the
west, chasing away the remaining clouds.

Now and then a sudden rift in their billowy softness
revealed a pale, cold-looking moon shining down on the
still, wet world.

Was the night like this "somewhere in France," she
wondered, as she stood there in the darkness. Did the
moon look down with cold face at the horrible sights
the fleeing clouds revealed — the slaughter and suffering
and death . . .?

Somehow she could not imagine Chatterton, the man
she had known, with his fastidious tastes and well-kept
hands, roughing it in the midst of supreme discomfort,
drinking an apology for tea out of a not over-clean can.
. . . She smiled a little at the very thought.

And yet — at that very moment Chatterton was endur-
ing something infinitely worse than over-brewed tea, and
confined space, which cramped his long limbs.

Up to his waist in mud and water, chilled to the bone
— aching in every limb — ^he was one of a stubborn line
of khaki figures facing death in the darkness and rain.

To right and left bare skeletons of ruined cottages,
where the guns had completed their work of destruction,
stood like blind sentinels staring into the darkness.

313

214 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

For a little the terrific bombardment of the guns had
lessened. It almost seemed as if from sheer exhaustion
they had paused to take breath. The silence was almost
unbroken, save for the sharp ping-ping of the snipers*
bullets.

To Chatterton, weary and stiff, there was something
more nerve-racking in this silence than there had been
in all the previous thunder and fury of th? day.

Scraps of conversation reached him from tinie to time
from the men on either side of him, sometimes with an
accompanying laugh — sometimes with a sort cf rough
wistfulness.

Once he caught the word "London" — a magic word
that carried with it a shaft of pain.

"London." It sounded to him now very much as the
name "Fairyland" sounds to a child ; as something won-
derful and far away of which one may only dream and
never dare hope to see.

He shifted his position a little, releasing the numbed
fingers of his right hand from his rifle.

For a moment he thrust them into the breast of his
tunic, trying to warm them a little.

London 1 ... It seemed a hundred thousand years
since the train had steamed out of Waterloo to the
accompaniment of ringing cheers. Surely he had lived
through a century of nightmare horrors in the days that
had dragged away since then.

The man next to him, who had told him that Carter
was wounded, spoke suddently, with a weary attempt
at levity:

"Suhry, isn't it?"

"Devilish !"

They both laughed a little. A bullet whizzed past,
and instinctively both men ducked.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 215

'*We're both new to the game, apparently," said C3iat-
terton. He had not been able to see his companion's
movement, but he had felt it through the darkness.

The silence fell once more. Chatterton's brain was
weary and half-numbed with want of sleep. The strain
of this trench work was telling on him more severely now
than it had done when he first came out to France;
sometimes it seemed a physical impossibility not to yield
to the awful temptation to drop down and sleep.

He thought about Carter and wondered if it were
indeed all over with him. One of the best Carter had
been. His mind wandered away a little vaguely.

If only the night would pass 1 An hour seemed twice
as long when it was dark, and surely he had never seen
such dark nights as there were out here— nights like
sheets of blackness, split here and there with tongues
of living flame.

His mind wandered away again to the summer months
and Sonia. In imagination he again walked the beautiful
gardens of Burvale with her at his side ... of course,
all this nightmare discomfort was a dream ... he had
only to open his closed eyes and find himself back there
in the sunshine. But his eyes had never been closed;
it was just the continual staring into the darkness that
had made him fancy that they were.

His fingers gripped his rifle more tightly; with a sort
of desperation he turned to the man beside him. To talk
seemed the only possible way to keep awake; but what
could one talk about — to an absolute stranger?

They had nothing in common save their discomfort
and weariness. In his present mood it seemed a thou-
sand times more difficult to Chatterton to make conversa-
tion than ever it had done in a London drawing-
room.

2i6 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

The other man unconsciously helped him out.

"What would you have, if someone came along and
asked you to take your choice?" he said.

Chatterton considered.

"A bath, I think," he said, after a moment "This
dirt seems to soak through to your very skin. . . . Hullo
— ^here they come again."

Some yards in front, the first line of trenches were
rent with a sudden frightful explosion ; in the vivid flash
of light one could distinctly see clouds of earth and
debris flung up into the wet night; the darkness was
made hideous with the screech of flying shells bursting
in yellow balls.

It was followed, with scarcely a second's interval, by
a fresh torrent of artillery fire; a little to the right of
where Chatterton stood the shell of a "Jack Johnson"
struck the earth, and left great furrows like yawning
graves ready to receive the victims of this fresh on-
slaught.

Those few who had escaped a horrible death in the
first line of trenches came tumbling backwards into the
second.

Chatterton was wide awake now ; his nerves were taut
like wire; now the real danger was upon them again he
felt almost unnaturally cool and steady. He leaned
forward over the breastwork of earth and helped haul
a fallen man into the temporary safety of the trench;
he was a young fellow, disfigured with smoke and mud ;
one arm hung shattered at his side. He had lost his cap
and rifle.

He collapsed in a shapeless heap at Chatterton's feet,
where he lay ; there was no time yet to attend to him.

The British guns were answering the challenge now;
their almost ceaseless roar drowned the incessant rifle

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 217

fire and swallowed the rattle of the machine guns. The
whole night seemed rent and torn with madness and
agony.

From the trenches hundreds of pale, licking flames
flashed out second after second; the ground in front
of the breast-high earthwork was strewn thickly with
the dead and dying. When, after some moments a horde
of gray-clad giants leapt from the German lines and
rushed forward across the ruined British trenches to
those in support behind, such a deadly fusillade of fire
greeted them that it seemed to force them back like the
pressure of invisible hands.

Chatterton — reloading his rifle steadily — ^glanced up
for a moment.

Was this the end of it all, he wondered dully? Was
he to meet his death here and now at the hands of this
merciless rabble in this hell of flame and uproar?

The lad who had fallen at his feet had struggled up ;
he was waving his uninjured arm and shouting in a very
delirium of pain and madness.

"Give it to the devils — ^give 'em hell, boys! Never
say die!"

Chatterton hSkd him subconsciously; it was all like
a scene in a play to him. He went on mechanically
loading and firing, only pausing once to hand his water-
bottle down to the poor lad beside him, who had collapsed
again and was moaning feebly.

Again and again the Germans returned to the charge,
undaunted by the rain of fire poured into them; their
closely-formed masses were an easy target, but as fast
as the gray line fell its gaps were filled up again — ^and
yet again.

A fljring bullet had grazed Chatterton's forehead ; the
blood was dripping down his face; he wiped it away

2i8 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

with a sense of impatience, and went on — on like an
automaton, loading and firing, loading and firing; pour-
ing lead into those oncoming masses of brave but fool-
hardy men sacrificed on the altar of hatred and re-
venge.

The first gray splash of dawn was pointing like an
avenging finger across the sky before the order came to
make the supreme effort to retake the lost trenches.

A No-Man's Land they were, in the first ghostly light
of day; their orderliness turned into a shambles of dead
bodies and great yawning holes.

Certain death it looked to obey that command and
leave the poor safety of the support trenches, but the
men were only too eager and willing.

Shouting, swearing, even singing snatches of song,
they leapt the parapets of the trenches and rushed for-
ward.

Chatterton felt as if he had lost his identity; he was
no longer an individual ; he was just a unit of this rac-
ing, shouting, mud-stained rabble.

Men were dropping like flies around him as he ran;
some falling with ajaugh, and udfaig their last drop of
vitality to try to struggle to their feet again; some went
down without even a moan, and lay where they had
fallen, shapeless, huddled masses, their khaki uniform^
one with the brown, riddled earth.

It was broa4 daylight before the line was restored;
the artillery fire had ceased; and battered, wearied, but
triumphant men paused a little to draw breath and bring
in their wounded.

Chatterton, looking about him with dazed eyes, won-
dered how any of them had come through that awful

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 219

night alive; the ground was strewn with hundreds of
dead and dying; a little shudder convulsed him as he
realized that anyone of those poor, helpless bodies might
have been his own.

Red Cross men were moving swiftly about, bringing
in their sad harvest ; Chatterton's head had been roughly
bound by a first-aid man; it throbbed a little, and the
dried blood felt stiff, but for all that he knew himself
unhurt.

Surely some of them must have charmed lives ; surely
some of them had been singled out by Fate for special
favors ; perhaps some woman at home had been praying
for them to the Grod who seemed to have forgotten them
during those awful hours.

Chatterton thought of Sonia. Unconsciously her
name had been on his lips all night, though he would
have said that he had had no time to think — ^no time
to do an3rthing but shoot to kill.

Was he to be spared to see her again, after all? Was
he still to have one moment face to face with her in
which to ask the question that seemed to be eating his
heart out with impatient longing; why had she come to
Waterloo that night?

Now the horror and excitement was over for the mo-
ment he realized once again how weary he was.

Sleep ! That was the only thing in all the world worth
having just then — ^to pitch down where he stood and
sleep and sleep was all that wearied Nature craved.

But there was to be no respite yet ; there were trenches
to be rebuilt and a hundred precautions to be taken
against the success of another such attack.

Chatterton found himself doggedly working with the
rest. His back felt as if it were breaking. His unused
muscles seemed to be cracking beneath the strain. But

220 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

what did that matter? How could one even think of
bodily weakness in the face of such ghastliness as a
possible defeat?

Biscuits and bully-beef were served out, and by mid-
day an unexpectedly wann sun had mounted high in
the sky and drawn some of the damp out of the trenches.

A man with a bandaged face was patiently tr3dng to
induce a kettle to boil over a fluctuating fire of rags
and paper. Now and then a pair of twinkling eyes
looked up from the bandages and a cheery Irish tongue
consigned the war and the whole of the German Army
to the "divil — bad 'cess to them!'*

Chatterton was at last free to get a little sleep, huddled
uncomfortably against the trench-head; but now the
chance had come he felt too weary to rest. His brain
seemed particularly alert and wide awake, even though
his body felt weighted with chains of exhaustion.

He shut his eyes and drew up his coat collar. In
spite of the kindliness of the sun, he was chilled to the
bone. Incongruously he remembered a day — ^not so very
long ago — ^when he had been caught in the rain in Lon-
don and got slightly damp.

The fuss he had made when he reached his rooms!
The way he had hustled Carter round to prepare a hot
bath and mix him a toddy! It all seemed ludicrous and
childish now.

He stifled a little sigh of retrospection and moved his
shoulders to a less uncomfortable position.

There was a slow trickle of water going down his back
from somewhere. He swore softly under his breath.

Someone touched his arm; there was something diffi-
dent in the touch. Chatterton opened his eyes impa-
tiently.

"What the . . ." he began ; then stopped, for the man

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 221

bending over him was Carter — ^the man of whom he had
been thinking not a moment since.

"Carter !" Chatterton was up in an instant. His eyes
were full of unfeigned delight; he gripped the man's
hand heartily. "I heard you'd been wounded — ^and
badly, too. . . . Must have been some other fellow with
tlie same name. . . . Gad ! I'm damned glad to see you."

"Yes, sir — ^thank you, sir." Carter's voice was
as unemotional and punctilious as ever it had been in
London. He had never been able to change his manner
towards Chatterton, even though they were no longer
master and servant, but both privates in the same regi-
ment, enduring the same hardships and sharing the same
dangers.

"I'm glad to see you back again, sir," he added.

He would have been laughed to scorn by his comrades
had they known that at that moment the thing that most
hurt him was the sight of Chatterton's worn, blackened
face and mud-stained clothes.

The valet in him longed to be able to administer to
his master even while the man in him longed to clap
that other man on the back and say, "Well done !"

He produced some cigarettes with diffidence and offered
them to Chatterton.

"I've plenty more, sir," he apologized. "They're
sent to me from London, sir . . . Miss Markham's maid

" he hesitated. "I beg pardon, sir, but I should

have said Mrs. Montague. . . ."

Chatterton had been in the act of taking the proffered
cigarettes. He let them fall unheeded to the earth at
his feet. He turned round very slowly, almost as if
he found movement difficult, and stared down at the
man's expressionless face.

"What did you say. Carter? Mrs. — Montague. . . ."

222 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

A little flush tinged Carter's pale cheeks. His honest
eyes filled with acute distress. For the first time in his
life he stammered as he spoke.

"I beg pardon, sir — I thought you must know, sir —
seeing that you've come from London so recently. Miss
Markham's maid told me herself — she writes to me occa-
sionally, and I had a letter this morning in which she
said that Miss Markham was married to Mr. Montague
two days ago."

All his life Carter remembered the stony look of
despair that filled Richard Chatterton's eyes in the mo-
ment of silence following his halting explanation ; all his
life he remembered with bitter remorse that it was his
own tactless blunder that had given the master he wor-
shiped the greatest blow of his whole life. He stood,
pale-faced and silent, realizing the utter futility of try-
ing to undo what he had done, or of even lessening the
shock.

Years afterwards he could recall the scene as clearly
as if it had been but yestei;iay; the morning sunlight
shining on the background of ruins and debris; the
smashed guns ; the worn-out men trying to snatch a little
sleep as best they could J and Chatterton's motionless
figure and haggard face with that awful stunned look
in his eyes.

Presently Carter began to stammer a fresh defense.

"I thought you would be sure to know, sir ... I
thought you would be sure to have heard, seeing that
you were in London so lately . . ."

Chatterton made a little silencing gesture with his
hand. For the moment he could not speak. His face
had gone as white as the clumsy bandage which bound
his forehead, but the color was slowly stealing back now.
Already he was recovering his lost self-control.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 223

He was remembering that this was not the time or
place for a man to wear his heart on his sleeve. He
put the pain away, and for the moment he buried it.
He stooped and picked up the cigarettes he had let fall
to the wet ground — ^his hand was almost steady as he
took one from the packet and lit it.

"It's all right, Carter," he heard himself say, "I
didn't know, but that's not your fault. . . . Well, how
have you been getting on? Is there any other news?"

"No, sir." The man looked wretched and embarrassed ;
he fidgeted with his cartridge belt; he would have given
his right hand to have been able to undo the last few
minutes. His remorseful eyes saw how ill and worn
Chatterton was looking; after a moment he asked
anxiously about the bandaged head.

"It's nothing — a graze, that's all — ^but the bleeding was
a nuisance; it's nothing."

Already the cigarette Chatterton had just lit had gone
out; after a moment he took it absently from his lips
and threw it away down tiie trench.

Chatterton went back to the comer from which the
coming of Carter had aroused him ; he had forgotten the
man's presence; he leaned back and closed his eyes.

There was a fierce, throbbing pain in his forehead,
and his limbs felt as if they were weighted with lead,
but sleep was the last thing now of which he thought;
surely there would never be any sleep for him again
in the whole desolate world.

Carter hovered near; he did not want to intrude, but
he had no intention of getting farther from his master
than he could help. He lay down on the damp ground
.with the warmth of the sun on his face and fell asleep.

But Carter was too new a soldier to sleep dreamlessly,
even when there was comparative peace around him, and

224 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

his sleep was broken by a dream of stampeding horses
and all the horrors of war, by the whiz of bullets and
the shouting of men. Something struck him on the
shoulder^— someone was shaking him violently. He woke
with a start — to find Chatterton at his side.

"Get up, man ! What on earth are you made of that
you can sleep through this pandemonium?"

Carter was on his feet in an instant. He must have
slept for some hours, for the morning sunshine that had
warmed his face was fading; a gray sky was gathering
overhead like a drab curtain, and the crack of rifle fire
and the sullen boom of distant g^s had started once
more.

The Germans were making a second attack on the
recaptured trenches.

Carter found himself next to Chatterton behind the
earthwork defenses. It was strange that still the old
feeling of having to serve the man who had once been
his master was strongly upon him. His fingers itched to
take Chatterton'3 rifle and load it for him. It was all
he could do to keep from offering him his own position,
which was slightly more sheltered and less wet under-
foot.

In spite of the previous night, this second attack had
not been expected; the information had been bad, or
perhaps someone had sold them to the enemy. From
the very beginning it looked a forlorn hope to Chatter-
ton. Most of their own men were worn out with insuffi-
cient rest and their ranks had been horribly depleted.
He knew that one company had lost all its officers, and
of another company of two hundred and fifty strong
barely a hundred were left.

But the enemy! The earth seemed to breed those
swarming, gray-clad figures; as fast as their ranks were

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 225

thinned others came on, and on, and on ; but the British
kept them at bay till sunset.

But the gray dusk relit with the long, waving line of
searchlights; they swept earth and sky like the eyes of
a demon from which it is impossible to hide, and every
time they swept with slow scrutiny over the trenches
the shells came and human screams followed.

Perhaps even the bravest knew then what fear was;
the sickening fear of death stalked about like a maniac,
laying a clammy hand on the shoulder of old and young

alike.

Once Carter's eyes met Chatterton's. Chatterton

laughed shortly.

His thoughts flew to Sonia — Montague's wife now !

Would she be sorry when she heard that he was one
of the hundreds of dead that would strew the fields
there before the night was over? Would she find it in
her heart then to forgive him for the way he had once

treated her?

As he stood there mechanically loading and firing, it
seemed as if the past year of his life was stretched out
like a pathway before him through the shell-smitten

darkness.

Step by step he traced the way he had come, down
to this present desolation— from the first rosy moment
when he asked her to be his wife; and all the way he
saw the road strewn with the weeds of his own selfish-
ness and blind indifference ; nowhere could he find that
the fault had been Sonia's.

Well, it was ended now ; her fair name was wiped off
the page of his unworthy life, as his would presently
be wiped off the page of life altogether.

Death !— He had thought so little of it ; it had seemed

226 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

60 far away and unreal; something that came to one's
friends and acquaintances but never to oneself.

And now it was herel Each ghastly, pulsating sec^
ond might be the one that would leave him an agonized,
quivering thing, gasping his life out.

To die here, like a rat in a hole — without even a run
for one's money ; without even the glory of being mown
down in a fear-shattering charge. . . .

The trench, with its mud and water, became suddenly
horrible to him ; he felt as if it were a prison, squeezing
his life out, shutting him in. The moaning of a wounded
man at his feet made him writhe; its helpless pathos
roused the devil in him; primitive savagery seemed to
rush through his veins; he felt as if he must leap that
dividing boundary of earthwork and rush forward to
meet the enany in the way that warriors of old went
into battle. What was the use of this nibbling warfare
from a trench . . . ? But he stuck it out all night — stuck
it out till dawn came up, gray and chill, relighting the
gruesome scene, and then, almost as if the fevered
thoughts of his heart communicated themselves to those
in command, an order rang through the night.

It was caught up and repeated, passed from mouth
to mouth, and always greeted as it went with a ringing
cheer, as hundreds upon hundreds of earth-stained, khaki-
clad figures leapt from the trenches and dashed forward
towards that far-stretching line of blue-spurting flame
end lurid glare.

A sort of mad exuberance seized Chatterton. The
blood was hammering in his veins. As he ran he shouted
and yelled with the rest. It was like hell let loose.
Fear was forgotten — left behind with the mud and death
in the trenches. Even the men who fell beneath the
awful hailstorm of death fell cheering and shouting.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 227

A young lieutenant, gallantly leading his men, was
close to Qiatterton as they ran. He had lost his cap,
and the fair, curly hair looked almost like a girl's in the
mingled glare of gray dawnlight and gunfire.

What did it matter now if he went out and were left
with the thousands of other nameless dead, he thought
recklessly, as he stumbled over a fallen man and fell,
only to struggle up again and dash on.

It was a nightmare rush across ground that seemed
swept with fire and alive with prayers for help and
groans of agony.

Two or three miles behind, a fresh battery had heard
the heavy firing and dashed to the rescue; it was only
when the shells from their guns screamed overhead that
the steady tide of defeat seemed to waver, and then
turn.

The knowledge of new support seemed to put fresh
heart into the exhausted men; they were almost done,
but there was still a kick left in them, and they gave
it for all they were worth.

At one time even the thought of bayoneting a man
had turned Chatterton sick, but now each time a gray-
clad figure went down before him the exuberance grew
in his veins.

This was vengeance; this was wiping out a little of
the heavy score of the earlier days of the war; he was
striking a blow for England, and each blow went
home.

Once he glanced round hastily to look for Carter,
but the man had disappeared, though for some distance
they had kept together ; the realization turned Chatterton
sick; for an instant his feet seemed chained to the
earth, though in reality he had not slackened his pace.
And then once again came the gradual diminishing

228 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

of the fight; the Germans had had enough for the time
being of the smashing of the fresh battery ; despite their
frantic efforts, they had made no real progress; only
a heap of dead and wounded and a lot of battered guns
were left to show the futility of their attempt.

Day after day the same partial victory had been main-
tained; day after day the same fight for the same row
of trenches was enacted, and now once more, with tlie
lessening of the firing, began again the sorrowful task
of burying the dead and collecting the wounded.

Some, still living, were beyond help on account of the
continuous shrapnel fire; back in the shelter of the
trenches Chatterton looked on at the heart-breaking,
hopeless scene.

It was full daylight now; light enough to see dying
men writhing in a last eflFort to drag themselves back
to safety.

Chatterton turned his eyes away; he could not bear
to look longer . . . and then, right in front of the trench,
some hundred yards away, he saw the lieutenant with
the fair hair trying painfully to drag himself back to
the lines.

He must have been shot through the legs, for, as he
worked himself slowly along by arms and elbows, his
legs dragged behind him like dead weights over the
rough, strewn earth.

Shrapnel was still falling like rain; and revengeful
rifle fire snapped continuously through the gray morn-
ing light.

Chatterton watched that dragging figure with bated
breath; it moved so slowly now — so painfully . . . and
then suddenly — as if the last spark of vitality had been
blown out like a flickering candle flame, it went down —
down, and lay motionless.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 229

It IS an old saying, and very often a true one, that
no man would be a hero if he first stopped to think.
A man is a hero on the impulse of the moment, and so
it was now with Chatterton. He was over the trench-
head in a single bound, and running like a hare across
the shrapnel-swept ground towards that huddled figure.

And it was only when tlie bullets began to fall thick
and fast around him that Chatterton realized that in
all probability he was rushing headlong into the arms of
death.

His action had drawn the rifle fire towards himself;
there was something revengeful and venomous in the
volleying ping, ping! — ^A hundred bullets missed him as
he ran; someone from the trenches at his back shouted
after him.

"Come back, you fool . . . come back, you damned
fool . . .!"

Chatterton laughed and ran on; reckless defiance had
him in its grip ; during the last two nights he had come
safely through greater peril than this; he would come
through again or die!

For the moment he was drunk with excitement; the
strength of a giant seemed tightening the muscles of his
weary limbs; he ran on with the splendid foolhardiness
of utter recklessness.

But the hundred yards seemed a thousand; the few
panting moments which it took him to run the distance
seemed a drawn-out eternity.

A bullet struck the heel of his boot and tore it away ;
another ripped the shoulder of his coat.

But he was there now, and on his knees beside that
huddled, boyish, figure, raising it with strong, capable
arms; speaking breathless directions and words of en-
couragement

2Z0 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

The poor lad was past answering, but he did his best
to follow Chatterton's instructions; he opened his eyes
and smiled, and his white lips moved.

And then the return journey began. . . .

How the distance grew with each staggering step!
surely he had been mistaken, and it was a hundred miles
instead of yards, to safety.

The firing was truer now; the target with its addi-
tional burden less elusive; every second a dozen bullets
seemed to whiz past his head like a swarm of angry
hornets ; one struck and ripped his cartridge belt ; a mo-
ment later he owed his life to a furrow in the riven
earth that tripped him and brought him down out of
reach of a shot that would have finished him; but he
was up in an instant, and staggering on again. . . .

The poor youngster on his shoulders was a dead weight
now. Chatterton had a lightning memory of a fable he
had read somewhere in his schooldays of a man who
offered to carry a child across a wide river. At first
the weight of the child had been nothing, but with each
step it had increased and increased till, before they
reached the center, it was as heavy as a grown man.

The sweat was pouring off Chatterton's face, but he
set his teeth and struggled on.

His path seemed strewn with dead and dying ; he was
conscious of a sort of senseless and unjust irritation
with them because they hampered his movements ; it was
so much harder to step over them than to just ignore
them, but there was always the fear that they might not
be dead — that they could still suffer pain.

And then amongst them he saw a face he knew — a
white, pain-twisted face from which agonized eyes spoke
a voiceless commendation and unconscious appeal; eyes

, '

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 231

that had hitherto been too well trained to allow the
expression of any real emotion between master and
man.

Carter, the man who, all unconsciously, had been in-
strumental in changing a slacker into a man; Carter,
who had purposely stuck as close as possible to his master
with a sort of vague thought that perhaps he might be
able to help and protect him ; Carter, down and out with

a bullet in the thigh and another in his side; physically
incapable to render the assistance of a lifted finger, even
though he would have given his life to do so.

The sight of this man, whom he had known for so
many years, helpless and suffering, acted on Chatterton
like a tonic; in a flash he knew what he meant to do
. . . the remaining yards to the trenches seemed as noth-
ing; as he drew near to them, half a dozen Tommies
swarmed over the earthworks and rushed cheering to
his assistance ; it was just as they took his burden from
him that something struck him in, the side; he was
conscious of a dull hurt and a sharp, stinging pain,
followed by something warm and wet oozing through
his tunic.

For an instant he reeled against a comrade ; a deathly
feeling of sickness turned him faint ; willing hands came
to his assistance; in another moment he would have
been lifted beyond possible range of those snapping bul-
lets, had not memory, like a searing flame, rushed back
to his dazed mind.

Carter . . . Carter was out there alone — ^wounded,
perhaps dying; and Chatterton had seen dying men be-
fore, left to the mercy of a brutal enemy, when rescue
had been made a sheer impossibility.

He was going back — all along he had meant to go
back; to his dazed brain it seemed that he had made

232 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

Carter the promise to return during that brief second
when their eyes met ; and a promise was a promise, and
must be kept.

He shook off the kindly arms that supported him ; his
face was dogged. . . .

"I've got to go back — I promised to go back . . .!"

His voice sounded almost delirious; his words were
greeted with a chorus of dissuasion. . . .

"It's madness — you'll never come through again!
Chatterton, don't be a fool."

But he hardly heard them; he was gone — ^back across
that death-spattered field in the direction where he knew
Carter was lying.

But one cannot hope to go through the fire twice and
come out unharmed, and even as he reached his man
a couple of sneaking, gray-clad figures rose from the
shelter of a small rise in the ground and made towards
him.

Chatterton was unarmed, but he saw them in time,
and, standing astride Carter's helpless body, he faced
them with blazing eyes and clenched fists.

Carter spoke — ^with quick, fevered anxiety. "Never
mind me, sir . . . look to yourself . . . there's time
yet . . ."

Chatterton did not answer; he stooped and snatched
up a revolver that had fallen from the inert hand of
a dead officer a stone's-throw away; a sort of wild prayer
that it might still be loaded rushed to his lips ; he leveled
it at the foremost of the oncoming Germans and pulled
the trigger ... it snapped harmlessly — ^the last cartridge
had gone. . . .

It was too late to try for another weapon ; Chatterton
lifted his uninjured arm and brought the revolver smash-
ing down with butt-end in the man's face; fortunately

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 233

the men were not armed save for the hand grenades
with which they had been sneaking along the ground to
throw at the British trenches.

He never knew clearly what happened then; it was
all a confused dream of pain, and blood, and grappling
arms, and groans, and an ever-increasing sense of weak-
ness.

From the British trenches it was impossible to fire, lest
in the tangled medley Qiatterton might get the bullet
intended for his assailants.

For a moment despair seized him. It was all up. Two
to one when the one was already injured was a losing
game from first to last; he was going out this time —
going out with Carter, after all.

But there was good stuff in his veins, and per-
haps, as thousands have experienced in this sad old
world, life had never seemed so dear to him as when
he believed he was about to lose it. A last mighty effort
and he was up again. A last desperate smite — right and
left ... his knuckles struck one man's jaw and the
other man's temple. The pain in his body was agonizing ;
the world began to swim before his eyes again into a
sea of blood. iLike a man in a dream, he knew that
he stooped, groped for Carter, and tried to raise him. . . .

But it was not possible. • . . his strength was giving
out fast — fast.

But he could still crawl . . . and crawl those remain-
ing yards he did, with his sound arm hooked round
Carter and his whole body seared and tortured with pain
unutterable.

And then, still half a dozen yards from the trenches,
he went down beside Carter like a dead man, and an
eager, swarming mass of men, who had never looked

234 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

to see him alive after those gray figures rose from the
hillock, carried them in together.

There were only moments of consciousness after that ;
one when someone poured hot, fiery liquid between his
lips, and he looked up and smiled faintly into the grave
face of an officer who had once been a friend of his —
years and years ago surely — ^in London.

"How the devil you ever got back alive, Chatter-
ton . . ." the voice was a little unsteady.

Chatterton tried to laugh ; he thought that he said ^
in reply:

"Trust the devil to look after his own. . . ." But
no sound came from his white lips, and suddenly earth
and sky and the group of faces bending above him
grew blurred and smudged, and then went out alto-
gether.

CHAPTER XIX

OLD Jardine sat in the club and sulked.
His thoughts were — for once — not with the
war, but with something— or perhaps it would
be more correct to say someone — ^much more personal,
Lady Merriaml

He had not seen her ladyship for four whole days,
though he had called twice at the hotel and written once
— ^and four days was a long time for anyone who —
well I

Old Jardine was perfectly aware that he was the
wrong side of forty by many years ; perfectly well aware
that he had lately developed such a rotundity that his
tailor had politely suggested that Turkish baths and a
course of dieting would be decidedly beneficial. But it
wras neither of these things that caused old Jardine to
sulk; he was sulking because he had lately discovered
that it is quite possible to keep a youthful heart in a
middle-aged body, and that a youthful heart is some-
times a troublesome organ.

He had made three distinct attempts to inform Lady
Merriam of his discovery, but each time her ladyship
had found ways and means of nipping the confidence
in the bud, so at last he had taken his courage in his
hand and written it . . . four closely-written sheets of
pathetic embarrassment and genuineness, which, ap-
parently, Lady Merriam had ignored, seeing that two
vrhole days had elapsed and he had received no reply,

«3S

236 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

Of course, he was a sentimental old fool, and she a
most charming woman — ^most charming I And no doubt
it was presumptuous on his part to ever dare imagine
that she — that he — Old Jardine swore softly to him-
self and rang a bell at his elbow for a whisky.

"And bring some papers, too," he commanded, when
the waiter appeared. "Daily papers — all the latest edi-
tions. I haven't heard any war news since breakfast."

The waiter hid a smile as he walked away ; everyorie
in the club knew the keen interest old Jardine took in
the war; after a moment he returned with four papers
neatly arranged on a tray beside the whisky and soda.

Old Jardine began to look more agreeable ; he hunted
for his glasses and unfolded one of his papers ; it opened
at an appallingly long list of casualties. . . .

Old Jardine sighed and his brows contracted. . . .

"Terrible thing! shocking thing! shocking!" he mut-
tered.

He scanned the roll of honor with somber eyes, and
the first line that fell under his notice was :

"Died of Wounds, March i : Pvt. Richard Chatterton,
— th Guards."

"Private Richard Chatterton — died of wounds!"
Over and over again Old Jardine read the few tragic
little words, but they conveyed no meaning to his shocked
brain.

Dead! Richard Chatterton dead!

A man coming up the room saw the old man huddled
in the chair by the fire, and called across to him.

"Hullo, Jardine!" But Old Jardine did not answer,
and the other man came nearer. "What's up — ^bad
news ?" His eyes fell on the paper still lying on Jardine'?
knees.

The old man looked up with apathetic eyes.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 237

"Richard Chatterton's dead! Killed!

"Good God!"

The other man grabbed at the paper.

"How on earth did it happen — ^accident, of course?'^

Something in the other's misunderstanding sent the
sluggish blood stirring again through old Jardine's veins.
He brought his clenched fist down on the padded chair-
arm and his eyes blazed.

"Richard Qiatterton died from wounds — Skilled by the
damned Germans. . . /'

"Great Scott!" The other looked thunderstruck. "I
had no idea he'd enlisted! By Jove!"

He was genuinely shocked; he was one of the little
gang of Chatterton's one-time friends who had lightly
dismissed him from their magic circle, believing him to
have "gone under." It was almost furtively that he
scanned the appallingly long list of casualties till he
reached that well-known name:

"Private Richard Chatterton."

Only a private! Fastidious Chatterton, with his ex-
travagant tastes and almost abnormal love of ease!

"By Jove !" he said again, with a sort of helplessness.
"By Jove — I'm — I'm frightfully sorry. Rotten for his
people — eh, what?"

"He hasn't got any 'people,'" said Old Jardine. "I
don't imagine that anyone will feel his death more than
I shall; I "

The stem old voice broke.

The other man fidgeted uncomfortably.

"I'm frightfully sorry — frightfully!" he said again.
**If there is anything I can do, you know . . . I've got
a brother at the War Office."

Old Jardine did not answer; he dragged himself
heavily from his chair, and walked out of the room.

238 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

Richard Chatterton dead I He knew now that all
along he had dreaded hearing something like this, and
yet now it had come it was the severest shock he had
ever experienced.

He felt himself an old, old man as he walked into
the lobby and asked the porter for hi^ hat and coat

The man had known Jardine for years. He was struck
by the sudden look of age in his face. He asked sym-
pathetically if he were ilL

Old Jardine shook his head.

"I've had a shock, Parker ... a bad shock 1 Mr.
Chatterton — ^you remember Mr. Chatterton, of course?*'

"Yes, sir — he's gone to America, I heard, sir."

Old Jardine began to look angry. This absurd report
had originated with him, he knew, and yet he felt as
if he must blame everybody else for it.

"He went to the front — ^to France!" he answered
with a ring of pride in his voice. "And his name is on
the roll of honor this morning. Mr. Chatterton died
of wounds."

He took his hat and went sorrowfully away.

Something seemed to have been cut out of his life
without a moment's warning — something which could
never be replaced.

When he got back home a letter from Lady Merriam
was waiting him, but he let it lie on the table unopened.
There was no room in his thoughts just then for any-
thing but that one little line from the paper.

Died of wounds! Died of wounds!

There was something of such finality about those three
words.

How had it happened? Would they ever hear, he
wondered? One had to wait so long nowadays for de-
tails; sometimes they never came at all.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 239

What would Sonia say? For of course she would
have to know, sooner or later, even if she had not already
seen the list in the paper.

Old Jardine fell to pacing his room restlessly. It
seemed an unfair act of Providence that cut down a
young, promising life, and left him — an old buffer whom
nobody wanted — ^hale and hearty.

If only he had been fifteen years younger!

Little more than a fortnight ago Richard Chatterton
had been here in this very room — ^handsome and stalwart ;
and now — ^perhaps already they had buried all that was
left of him in an unknown grave.

Out in the streets the sun was shining; its brightness
secpied somehow a mockery, the old man thought, as
its warmth fell on his sad face; the sun had no right
to shine when every minute some gallant young life was
being sacrificed and some woman's heart here in Eng-
land was breaking.

He went out again into the streets; he bought every
paper he could find, but none of them had anything to
add to that one eloquent line.

Old Jardine stuffed them all into the pockets of his
overcoat; he had a sort of feeling that any paper with
Chatterton's name in its columns was something per-
scMial; his pockets bulged ludicrously when presently he
hailed a taxi and told the man to drive him to the War
Office.

Haileybury had said ke had a brother there. Well,
he would go and find him and see if anything else could
be discovered.

He found himself one of a little group of anxious
men and women, all bent on the same sad errand.

But, save in one or two cases where the missing man
ivras an officer of some standing, it was almost impossible

:240 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

to learn more than the papers had already communicated.
Haileybury was out, but the officials were kind and
courteous ; they promised to do everything in their power.
Old Jardine grumbled and called them an incapable,
muddle-headed lot

He dismissed the taxicab he had kept waiting and
walked away through the sunshine.

It seemed strange to know that Richard Chatterton
would never come back to London again — that none of
them — his friends and acquaintances, would ever hear
his cheery voice any more, or shake him by the hand.

A recruiting sergeant was standing joking and laugh-
ing with a knot of promising-looking youngsters ; yester-
day the sight would have filled old Jardine with
enthusiasm, but to-day the whole of his patriotic perspec-
tive was shaken and out of focus.

It was all very well, this side of the question ; parading
the streets in uniform to the martial strains of a band;
but it was somehow different when things were brought
down to the narrow confines of an unknown grave.

As he stood on the curb waiting for an opportunity
to cross the road towards St. Martin's Lane a motor-car
slowed down close to where he stood.

Old Jardine glanced towards it disinterestedly; then
a little flush ran into his face, for the two ladies seated
' in it were Sonia and Lady Merriam.

They were laughing and talking together happily, and
suddenly old Jardiiie was seized with a wild desire for
flight before they saw him.

Neither of them had heard about Richard Chatterton,
he was sure, or they would not be looking so radiant;
Soma's face was flushed and sweet beneath the small
hat she wore.

And not four months ago she had been engaged to the

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 241

man who was now one of the thousands of nameless
dead that had fallen on the strewn fields of France!

He made a frantic dash across the road imder the
nose of an omnibus, but not before Lady Merriam had
seen him.

She touched Sonia's arm excitedly.

"There goes Mr^ Jardine. Heavens! Does he want
to be run over?"

She leaned forward and spoke to the chauffeur, and
as a consequence when old Jardine reached the opposite
pavement the car had turned about and was there almost
as soon as he.

There was no escape possible; he tried to pull him-
self together and smile as he met the eyes of the two
women; there was a little gleam of dawning anxiety
in Sonia's.

"Were you deliberately trying to run away from us ?"
she asked him. "It looked suspiciously like it— didn't
it. Lady Merriam?"

Old Jardine blustered a contradiction.

"I wasn't — 'pon my word I wasn't. Lovely morn-
ing, isn't it? Where are you ladies off to? Shopping,
I suppose."

"Nothing of the kind," Lady Merriam declared. "You
men seem to imagine that a woman does nothing but
swing in and out of shops. We are merely taking
a drive round. I suppose you don't care to come
with us?"

Old Jardine declined with such suspicious haste that
Lady Merriam looked offended. She raised her head
with dignity.

"Then we may as well drive on, Sonia," she said icily.

The car started away; as soon as they were out of
earshot her ladyship burst out:

^42 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"'Whatever can be tbe matter with the man ? He hasn't
been near us for days, and now he tries to run awaj.
I'm sorry I ever troubled to go after him."

Sonia looked distressed.

*'I thought he looked ill/' she said reluctantly.

"Too many late nights/' Lady Merriam declared un-
sympathetically. '^That's aU that is ever wrong with
him, and I've known him a good many years."

But Sonia was not satisfied. There had been some-
thing in the expression of Old Jardine's eyes as they met
her own that she had never seen before.

The car turned into the park. There were a good
many people about, and the grass was yellow with daf-
fodils, swaying gracefully in the soft breeze.

The sight of them reminded Sonia of Burvale. The
gardens there would be full of spring flowers now, wait-
ing to welcome her when she went back there as a bride !

Only four more daysl

Four such little, little days.

She woke from her thoughts to the touch of Lady
Merriam's hand on her arm.

"Look — that's young 0>urtenay coming along, surely.
Whatever is the matter with the boy? Has he gone
mad?"

A slim figure in khaki was dashing along the path
towards them, waving a paper excitedly. The chauflfeur,
recognizing him, stopped the car. Young Courtenay
came up to the door breathless and panting; his face
was scarlet with excitement and the speed at which he
had come.

"I saw you turn in — ^I was sure it was your car/'
he broke out breathlessly. "I've been chasing you; I
thought I should never make you see me. You've

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 243

heard the news, of course, haven't you? Isn't it
splendid ?"

"News! What news? We haven't heard a thing I
What are you talking about?" cried Lady Merriam
shrilly. "Is the Kaiser dead?"

"Much better than that!" young Courtenay declared
with an excited laugh. "Haven't you read the papers?
Haven't you heard that Richard Chatterton has got
the V.C. ?"

Every drop of color drained slowly from Soma's face,
then came rushing back in a great wave of crimson.
Lady Merriam gave an excited scream.

"Richard! Got the V.C? Didn't I always say he
would do something wonderful?"

She changed her seat to the one opposite, so that she
would be nearer to Courtenay.

"You're quite sure — quite sure? You're not making
mistakes? Here — ^let me see it for myself." She tried to
snatch the paper from his hands, but he drew back a little.

"It's only a short notice ; he's only mentioned amongst
a heap of other chaps, but he's recommended for the
V.C. right enough — saved two other chaps under terrible
fire. Good old Dick !" There was wild excitement and
emotion in the boy's voice; he was completely carried
away on the tide of his own excitement.

Lady Merriam laughed triumphantly.

"Won't some of his so-called friends be sick when
they hear about it," she said a trifle maliciously.

Sonia spoke for the first time.

"And he's all right himself — ^not hurt or — anything?"
she asked. Her voice sounded constrained, and breath-
less; her eyes shone like stars; there was such a wild,
exultant gladness in her heart that she was half afraid.

244 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

Richard was a V.C. In spite of everything, her first
confidence and pride in him had been justified.

Courtenay shook his head.

"I don't know — it doesn't say; but it hardly seems
likely that he can have got off without a scratch. I'm
longing to hear the whole story."

"You're a dear," said Sonia impulsively.

She was half ashamed as soon as the words were
spoken.

She sat back a little and relapsed into silence.

Presently Courtenay left them. There were heaps of
people he had got to tell the ripping news to, he said.
He was like a delighted schoolboy.

"Won't they all be delighted down at Burvale," Lady
Merriam said as they drove away again. "My dear,
there ought to be a great home-coming, and flags and
triumphal arches and fireworks and things, now oughtn't
there?"

Sonia looked distressed.

"I — I . . . how can there be ?" she asked tremulously.
"There are other people to think of besides ourselves
now, and, you see . . ."

She broke off helplessly.

Mr. Jardine will be delighted, won't he?" she said
presently.

She was trying hard to be brave and not avoid the
subject of Chatterton; it seemed so paltry, somehow, to
try to push his heroism out of sight just to save her
own feelings.

Lady Merriam shrugged her shoulders; old Jardine
was not in her good books just then.

"I really don't know if he will be pleased or not/'
she said, rather frigidly.

Sonia laughed.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 245

As they drove down Regent Street the evening papers
had just been issued; newsboys ran along screaming
their headlines; an array of flaring posters were care-
fully arranged in the muddy gutter, weighted with stones
to keep them from blowing away.

Lady Merriam told the chauffeur to stop.

*Taiper, Lidyl" One of the newsvendors had spotted
the slackening car, and was already at the door, thrust-
ing a grimy hand and a paper over the door.

Lady Merriam took it gingerly ki her white-gloved
hand and gave him sixpence.

She laid the paper in Sonia's lap.

"See if there is any fresh news, my dear ; I can't read
a word without my glasses."

Soma's hands shook a little as she unfolded the paper ;
she scanned the front page nervously.

"There's another neutral ship sunk in the C3iannel,"
she said. "And it's reported that a trawler has rammed
a submarine."

"Never mind the submarines for the moment," her
ladyship answered impatiently. "Just now it's about
Richard I want to hear. Look on the back page — •
they generally stick the bits about men at the front and
what goes on in the trenches there."

Sonia turned the paper obediently.

"There are a few letters from men at the front,"
she said, after a moment. "And — oh . . . yes . . .
someone has written something about it It's quite a
long paragraph. Won't you wait till you get home
and then read it for yourself?"

Lady Merriam glanced at the girl's face, and a little
wave of compunction seized her.

"Perhaps it would be better," she agreed with sudden
meekness.

246 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

She took the paper from Sonia, and kept it till they
reached the hotel, but she did not wait to even take
oflf her gloves before she mastered what there was of
the story.

Someone in the same company as Chatterton had writ-
ten home to a relative, and part of the letter had been
printed.

"I dare say you will have heard in London now about
one of our fellows named Chatterton being recom-
mended for the V.C. I never saw anything so plucky.
He went out twice under awful fire to bring in a

wounded man. One — ^Lieutenant C , died of his

wounds soon after, poor chap, but the other fellow is
doing well. There's a story going round that he was
Chatterton's valet before the war or something. There
are all sorts of men in our company, and most of them
rattling good chaps. They say Chatterton would have
got a commission if he'd pulled through — rotten hard
luck, isn't it?"

"If he'd pulled through!" Lady Merriam's hands
tightened convulsively on the paper.

"If he 'd pulled through?" What in the world did
it mean? That he was ill — wounded? Not— oh, surely
not— dead ?

For a moment she could not move or breathe; she
cast a terrified look at Sonia.

The girl was standing by the fireplace. She looked
quite calm and unconcerned It would have been difficult
for anyone to guess how fast her heart was beating;
how every nerve was straining to catch the slightest
movement or ejaculation from Lady Merriam.

After a moment she turned.

"Well, do they give a very thrilling account?"

Lady Merriam answered hurriedly; too hurriedly.

"No; it's hardly mentioned — ^just a few lines/ but
nothing fresh."

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 247

In her anxiety she overdid her indifference; a gleam
of apprehension crossed the ^Vs face.

''Let me look; I should like to read it — ^to see it for
myself."

"There's nothing — ^nothing at all; I'll read you what
there is; some man in the same company has written
home about it all; just a few scrappy Unes; you know
how disconnected these letters from the trenches are
. . . Sonia!" For the girl had made a sudden almost
violent movement, and taken the paper from her lady-
ship's hand

Lady Merriam began to cry.

"You are the most obstinate, self-willed girl I ever
met. I try to spare you, and you won't let me.
Don't read it, Sonia. You know how these evening
papers exaggerate things — th^ print anything just to
make the public buy."

There was a mistiness before Soma's eyes; try as she
would she could not focus a single word of what was
printed there; she turned to Lady Merriam piteously.

"Oh, what is it? I can't see. Do tell me what has
happened."

Lady Merriam put an arm round her; she spoke
soothingly. "It doesn't say an3rthing definitely; only
that — just something about if he had pulled through.
Oh, don't, don't look like that, my dear!"

The paper had fallen to the ground between them.

"You mean — you mean that he is . . . dead?" Sonia
asked in a stifled voice. "You needn't be afraid to tell
me ... is that it? Is Richard dead?"

Her voice was so calm and emotionless that Lady
Merriam took courage.

"I wouldn't believe it yet, Sonia," she said urgently.

248 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

''I should refuse to believe it till we hear something on
better authority."

Sonia seemed not to hear her; she stood there, a
pathetic enough figure, staring before her with dull eyes.

Richard was dead! All these months of struggle and
misunderstanding had ended so simply after all. He
was dead, and there was nothing else to be said.

Presently she walked towards the door. Lady Mer-
riam followed her.

"Oh, Sonia, what are you going to do?"

Sonia smiled.

"What am I going to do? What do you think I am
going to do? I am only just going to my room . . .
and it would be kind if you would leave me alone for
a little while . . ."

She went away, clclsing the door after her, and Lady
Merriam promptly forgot her animosity of the morning
and rang up Old Jardine.

She wept as she told him on the 'phone what had
happened.

"I refuse to believe it; I utterly refuse to believe it!"
she sobbed, dropping tears on the receiver. "Have you
heard anything?"

"I'm coming round," said Old Jardine, and rang oflE.

He came as fast as a taxi would bring him. It needed
only one look at his face to tell Lady Merriam the truth.
She- sat down suddenly with an overpowering sense of
weakness.

She would never see Richard again. His handsome,
cheery personality was removed from her life forever.
Big tears coursed down her cheeks.

"Fd wish I'd been nicer to him now !" she sobbed for-
lornly. "I was often horrid to him— oh, yes I was" —
as old Jardine tried to comfort her. "But how was I

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 249

to know that he'd turn out a hero some day? Oh, it
is hard !"

"Does — does Sonia know?"

"She knows what was in the paper, of course. That
young Courtenay came rushing up to us in the Park
this afternoon and told us about Richard being recom-
mended for the V.C. He didn't know anything else —
or, at least, he didn't tell us an)rthing else — and we were
both so delighted and proud, and I bought a paper; and
then — then we Saw this . . /'

There was a long silence.

"Of course, it may be a mistake even now," Jardine
said heavily at last. But he had no real hope.

Lady Merriam dried her eyes.

"Well, it's a pretty ending to all my fine plans," she
said drearily. "I thought everjrthing was going so nicely,
till this wretched war broke out. And then the Kaiser
must needs go and make a fool of himself, and now
look where he has landed us all!"

"I don't think we can exactly blame the Kaiser,"
Old Jardine ventured mildly. "It's Providence — ^just
Providence."

Lady Merriam nearly said "fiddlesticks !" but changed
her mind in time.

Old Jardine was fumbling in a pocket. Presently he
drew out a little packet and laid it gently down in Lady
Merriam's lap.

"It's for Sonia — ^poor child! Chatterton gave it to
me before he went away. I promised she should have
it if — if anything like this happened. Will — ^will you
give it to her? Or shall I?"

Lady Merriam hesitated. She turned the little packet
over tenderly. The sight of Chatterton's writing on
the outside brought the tears to her eyes again.

250 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"Do you think it's wise?" she said at length. ''What
good can it do? It will only break her heart all over
again."

Old Jardine began to look fierce.

"I promised," he said shortly.

Lady Merriam rose to her feet. With the little packet
in her hand she walked to the door and across the land-
ing to Sonia's room.

She knocked softly, but there was no answer. She
hesitated a moment, then turned the handle and entered.

;, t K^\ .1.

'^ CHAPTER XX '

iHE room was in darkness when Lady Merriam
opened the door, The yellow light of a street
lamp peeped through one window where the
blind was still undrawn^ and made a bright patch on
the floor.

Sonia was lying face downwards on the bed. She had
thrown off her hat and coat, and her face was hidden
in her outstretched arms.

Lady Merriam was aghast. In her heart of hearts
she had not really believed that Sonia would be more
than naturally shocked at the news of Chatterton's death.
The sight of that prostrate figure for the moment rooted
her feet to the floor. Then she closed the door behind
her and went forward.

There was something so tense in the slim outlines of
the girlish figure — something so utterly stricken in the
small clenched hands on the white pillow — ^that for a
moment Lady Merriam could not think of anything tc
say.

She was clutching tightly to her breast the packet
Old Jardine had given her. At first she thought that
the best and kindest thing to do would be to go quietly
away, and never give Sonia that last message from
the man who had loved her. But the memory of Old
Jardine's anger and fierce eyes prevented her from doing
so. She bent over the girl, gently touching her

"Sonia! Oh, my dear child."

251

252 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

For an instant Sonia lifted her face, and lOoked at
Lady Merriam with dry, tearless eyes.

**01i, leave me alone — leave me alone!" she said
piteously.

Lady Merriam sat down beside her. What com-
fort could one possibly oflFer in the face of such
a tragedy? Tears welled into her kind eyes. She
thought of a day many years ago when she, too, had
lost the man who had been everything in the world
to her.

But at least she had had the comfort of having first
been his happy wife. At least she had been with him
for a few moments before he died. His last word and
smile had been for her. But this poor child!

Sonia and Richard Chatterton had parted in anger.

She smoothed th^ girl's soft hair with gentle hand.
She wondered what Soma's mother would have done
bad she been there at that moment

Presently she remembered the packet old Jardine had
entrusted to her. She turned it over hesitatingly.

It was simply addressed to "Miss Markham" in Chat-
terton's dashing hand.

So many times Lady Merriam had seen little notes and
letters addressed to Sonia in just the same way. It
seemed incredible that the hand that had penned those
letters was stiff and cold; that she would never again
meet the smiling cardessness of his eyes, never listen to
ibis coaxing voice.

And they might have been so happy, he and Sonia.
She looked down at the girl with pitying eyes.

A little thought on his side — a little toleration on hera
— and their lives would have been so different.

True, Richard might have died in just the same way,

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 253 "

but at least there would have been no burden of remorse
for Sonia to carry besides her grief.

"Alas ! how often life has to be taught by Death,
The meaning and the pricelessness of love —
Not understood till lost . . ."

The words came into her mind as she sat there in the
silent room; Lady Merriam disliked poetry on principle,
but, somehow, it suited her mood to-night. The little
tragedy of these two young people, with whom her life
had been so closely allied for so long, took her back ta
her own youth and the dark days of her widowhood,

"Sonia . . . you mustn't forget that he died as we
all could have wished ... as a brave man — fighting for
his cotmtry. . . ."

She tried to choose words that would break the stoni-
ness of the girl's grief and release the tears that were
now only being shed in her heart, but they sounded bald
and unconvincing to her own ears.

Sonia moved restlessly.

"I know! It isn't that. I think I could have borne
it if — if I had only just said good-by to him — ^just
. . . just told him I was sorry. . . ."

There was an anguished ring in her voice; she sat
up suddenly, pushing the tumbled hair back from her
flushed face; she caught Lady Merriam's hand.

"You won't tell anyone — ^you won't let anyone think
that I minded! Oh, I couldn't bear it if anyone knew
that I was sorry "

Lady Merriam could not understand; she knew noth-
ing of the reasonless jealousy which Sonia had cherished
against little Nurse Anderson; she did not understand
that Sonia was ashamed to the depths of her heart
because she could not help but grieve for the man whom
she believed had long since forgotten her.

i54 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"I won't tell anyone . . . there is no one to tell.
There is no one here but me." Lady Merriam promised
soothingly.

Sonia was crouching against the pillows with her face
hidden in her hands; Lady Merriam noticed that she
no longer wore the big diamond ring Montague had
given her.

"If I could only just have said good-by to him," she
said again brokenly. "And now he'll never know that
I was sorry — sorry — I shall never know if he forgave
me . . . and I said such cruel things to him. . . ."

In her tortured imagination she was living again that
night of the Red Cross ball ; that night when Chatterton
had put his arms round her and asked, "Sonia, do you
love me?"

How many times since had she thought of the little
passionate thrill in his voice, and the close pressure of
his arms; how many times since had she not longed to
live that moment over again; longed to go back to that
night and turn and put her arms round his neck and
answer truthfully, "I love you with all my heart and
soul !"

And now it was too late; now not even her wildest
prayers could reach him where he lay.

Lady Merriam drew the girl's cold, trembling hands
down from her face; she took the little packet which
bore Chatterton's writing on its cover, and put it gently
into the quivering fingers.

"Richard left it with Mr. Jardine — for you," she said
gently.

She waited a moment, but Sonia did not speak, so
she went softly from the room.

Sonia sat quite still, staring down at the little packet
in her hands.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 255

It seemed so long since she had seen Richard's hand-
writing; so long since those happy days when she had
looked so eagerly for his little scribbled notes.

Presently she slipped down from the bed and carried
the little parcel oyer to the dressing-table; she turned
on the light there, and, with shaking hands, carefully
cut open the flap of the bulky envelope.

But then her courage failed her; memory came sur-
ging back in such a torrent that for the moment it blinded
and deafened her; it was like stepping back into a by-
gone year, and finding herself once more happy and
beloved with Chattertpn by her side.

"But he is dead ! Dead !" She spoke the words aloud
with a sort of anguished insistence.

With slow fingers she drew the many folded sheets
from the covering envelope; they were covered with
Chatterton's big, scrawly writing, and smeared in one
or two places as if he had written in great haste.

It was all so familiar — she had seen just such letters
written by him many times before, and with sudden
overwhelming heartbreak she lifted the sheets to her
lips.

"Dick! Dick!" She sat down by the dressing-table
and spread the closely-written sheets out amongst the
litter of silver trinkets.

There was no address at the head of the letters, but
it was dated some weeks back; there was no real be-
ginning to it either — the words just started with a sort
of impulse which seemed to speak so clearly of the state
of Chatterton's feelings at the time he wrote.

"I don't know if you will ever sec this, Sonia — if you
do, it will just mean that I have gone under once and
forever, and that there can no longer be any questioa
of forgiveness between you and me. There is so much
I want to say to you, and yet now I am trying to write

256 RICHAKD CHATTERTON, V.C

it down in black and white the words just won't come.
You sdways used to laugh at my letters— do you re-
member? And yet they meant so much more than ever
you guessed — ^perhaps more than even I m3rself knew
tmtil now, when it is too late. Looking back now on
everything, I have let shp, I can see what a selfish fool
I was sdl along— but I did love you — I did love you.

Tm such a duffer at saying what I mean^t's all
here in my heart, Sonia, if you could see it, only I can't
write it down. Dearest— but I suppose I mustn't call
you that any longer — ^if you knew what I've suffered
since that night you sent me away. I don't want to
whine, because it's all my own fault, but that seems to
make it so much harder. If I could only blame you!
But I can't You were always much too good for me.
Sonia, I do hope you'll be happy. It hurts more than
anything in the world to write this to you — you who
were to have been my wife! We planned such a won-
derful future, and now none of it will come true.^ But
I've done what you always wanted me to, Sonia. I
don't know why I never guessed before what it was
that looked at me from your eyes with that sort of
wistful appeal

"I'd sladced about so long, and life had been so easy.
Thaf s all the excuse I can find for myself, and it's a
poor enough one, God knows. Sonia, if you ever read
this, it will mean that I am dead. It looks a sort of
maudlin sentiment now, written down in cold blood —
but that's what it will be, if you ever read these lines,
and so there is just one thing I must say to you. What-
ever happens I shall always love you. You are more to
me now than anything in the whole wide world. Oh,
^•' my darling, if I could only have my chance over again.

But I can't — I know that; and Montague is a better
chap than I ever was. He'll make you happy. I was
fond of him once, and we were good friends, and if
I hate him now it's not your fault or his, but my own.

"That night at the dance . . . but if s no use going
back to all that. I deserved what I got But whatever
happens, whatever people tell you in the future, it's not
true that I did not love you. I always loved you. I
love you now. I shall love you till I die and afterwards I
Try and forgive me, little girl. Try and believe that it
was only thoughtlessness and ignorance that made me
make such a muddle of everything. Sometimes I
wonder what would have happened if this war hadn't
come along. We should have got married, I suppose,
and then some day I should have failed you at some
other crisis, and you would have been disappointed.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 257

just as you are now. So perhaps it's just as well
that things have happened this way.

"I enclose a letter which I took from Montague's
mantelshelf that night of the dance. He never saw it.
I took it away after I answered the 'phone to you, when
you thought you \yere speaking to him. Something
seemed to stand still in my heart that night when I
heard you speak as you did; and yet all the time it
was only what 1 deserved. I haven't read the letter,
Sonia, though hundreds of times I've been just mad
with longing to tear it open and see for myself what
you really thought of me. Dearest, I don't want ta
drivel, and it isn't easy to remember that if these words,
ever reach you it won't matter to me any longer what
you think or what you say; but I feel that I must keep
on telling you how much I love you. You're in my
thoughts all day and all night. Every woman who comes
along the street makes my heart race in case it might
be you. If I could only see you! Only speak to
you just once more."

Here the letter broke off abruptly, as if the writer
had been called away.

Sonia laid the sheet down in her lap ; she was trembling
from head to foot.

It was all a dream, a phantasy, this letter from the
man she believed had forgotten her; it was a cruel
mockery that only now, when it was too late, she should
know that he had always cared.

The very incoherent repetition of what he felt drove
home its sincerity.

Sitting there, looking down at his handwriting, read-
ing the clumsy expression of his remorse and pain, it
seemed impossible that the living, breathing man who-
had penned those words was no morel

Impossible that there was no longer any Richard Chat«
terton, but only another nameless grave added to the
thousands out there in France. How could such a
strong man die? How could his life be taken when she
loved him so?

And he had no word of blame for her; there was

258 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

not the smallest allusion to all the hard things she had
said to him. She moistened her diy lips — she felt as if
she could never shed another tear as long as she lived.

She took up the remaining pages and began to read on.

Her own letter — ^the one she had written in that mad
moment of angry pique to Francis Montague fell to the
floor. She forgot what she had said in it, neither did
she care.

The next page of Chatterton's letter was dated two
days later.

"Since I wrote to you there have been rumors that
we may soon be sent out to the front. I am glad it
bas come; I can't stand London now after what has
happened. Sonia, sometimes I feel as if I could throw
myself down and cry like a girl when I think of the
awful hash I have made of my life. You'll smile at
that! You never thought I had much feeling, I know.
This is such an inadequate letter. I shan't read it
through or it would never be sent at all, and I shall
have to finish now, as I am due on parade in a few
minutes. Carter is in the same company as I am —
you always said I should never be able to exist without
him, and it looks like it, doesn't it? He's a good fel-
low. So this is really good-by; I don't know how to
say it properly; there do not seem to be any words in
the English language that can express all I feel as I
write this.

"Dearest, if I have got to die out there in France
I shall die loving you. I shall be thinking of you the
very last minute of all — longing for you. I am giv-
ing this to Old Jardine to keep; he's a white man! I
never liked anyone half as well as I like him. I hope
you will always keep him as a friend. I haven't time
to write any more, and yet in spite of all these pages
I seem to have said nothing. But it all comes back to
this — I love you, my little wife that was to have been,
and I ask you on my knees to forgive me for all the
disappointment and unhappiness I have caused yotL
Sonia, if only I could hold you in my arms once
more . . ."

But here the letter broke off and finished.
Surely there was more — surely she had missed a page
somewhere! With shaking hands she counted them

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 259

through, sorting them out in order; but there was noth-
ing morel All her life she would never hear from
him again — never tell him that she, too, had always loved
him — ^that she had been mad to think she could ever care
for another man; that nobody else mattered in all the
wide, desolate world now he was no longer there!

"Dick! Dick!" His name came readily to her lips
now. Broken-heartedly she fell on her knees, sobbing
and wailing like a child; in her anguish it seemed as
if by the very strength of her desire she must reach
him where he lay and bring him back.

"Dick 1 Dick !" He loved her — ^he was hers — surely,
surely he would come back just for one moment to kiss
and comfort her. "Dick! Dick!" But there was no
answer, for the dead cannot hear.

CHAPTER XXI

WHEN Lady Merriam went again to Soma's
room late that night, Sonia was fast asleep,
crouched on the floor, with her head against
the bed; there were tear-marks still on her face, and,
bending more closely over her. Lady Merriam saw that
she held Richard Chatterton's last letter tightly clutched
in her hands.

It seemed so cruel, somehow, to waken her; to bring
her back from the little stray dream that had brought
that half-smile to her lips, to the cold reality of a sad
world.

Lady Merriam stood hesitating for some minutes, but
in the end common sense won the battle against senti-
ment, and she gently roused the girl.

"Sonia — it's bedtime . . . it's nearly twelve o'clock."

Sonia> raised heavy lids from eyes still clouded with
sleep, the little smile on her lips wavering piteously before
it faded; she rose stiffly to her feet, clinging to Lady
Merriam's outstretched hand.

"I fell asleep. I'm sorry. Is it very late?"

She looked round the room dazedly, and then down
at the letter she clasped so tightly.

There was a moment of blankness, and then . . . Lady
Merriam looked away from the agony in the girl's face.

"You'll feel better after a good night's rest," she
said, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact voice. What
good would it have done to yield to the impulse spring-

260

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 261

Ing from her warm heart to put her arms round Sonia's
slender figure, and let her have her cry out?

But, once safe behind the closed door of her own room,
Lady Merriam sat down and gave copious vent to her
own feelings.

She felt better then and sufficiently composed to realize
that tears were most unbecoming before she made a
vigorous onslaught on the powder-box.

"But she'll never marry Montague now," she con-
fided to her tear-stained reflection. "It will put an end
to his little game once and for all."

But in this she was mistaken, for the next morning
Sonia came to Lady Merriam's room, where the latter
was luxuriously partaking of breakfast in bed, looking
very much as usual.

She was a little pale and heavy-eyed, and for the first
moment or two she rather avoided the elder woman's
kindly gaze; but she bent and kissed her composedly
enough, before she sat down in a chair at the bedside.

She held two or three letters in her lap that had come
by the morning post ; she sorted them through carelessly,
looking for one which she had opened and already read.

"Francis is coming to-day," she said then.

There was no tremor in her voice — not a flicker of
an eyelid. Lady Merriam could only stare aghast.

The girl looked up, and, meeting the blank amazement
in her eyes, colored faintly.

"I suppose you think it strange after . . . after last
night," she said, faltering a little, "that I should — should
be quite ready to — to go on with — with — things — ^but — "
She slipped to her knees suddenly, hiding her face
against the satin quilt.

"I want to tell you about it all, just this once," she
whispered. "And then afterwards we won't ever men-

d63 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

tion it again. I'm going to marry Francis — ^I promised^
and — ^and I couldn't bear to thixik that I spoilt his life
as well as Richard's/'

"Sonia !" Lady Merriam tried to raise the girl's head,
but she resisted; she went on in a muffled voice.

"I was as much to blame as he. I ought not to have
tried to judge him — it wasn't my place." Her voice
broke, but she controlled it quickly again. "But he loved
me always. I just had to tell you that. I couldn't -
bear you or Mr. Jardine to think that he didn't love me. i.
Last night — just for a little, I thought I couldn't bear
it I thought I couldn't go on living, but now. Oh,
it's so hard to try and pretend that I can !" she added,
with a sob.

Lady Merriam did not speak. She tried hard to follow
Sonia's train of thought, but found it all incomprehen-
sible. She did not understand that it seemed to Sonia
now that in some vague manner she owed it to Richard
Chatterton not to bring havoc and grief into the life
of a second man.

Women are strange creatures, and to Lady Merriam's
evenly-balanced, practical mind it sieemed that Sonia was
doing something utterly without reason.

If she cared nothing for Montague, why marry him?
She said rather helplessly:

"You must do as you think best, my dear, of course.
If you say that the wedding is to take place just as
we arranged, I am quite willing to do all in my power."

Sonia laughed a little shakily; she knew quite well
that Lady Merriam was mystified.

Then we will let it go on, please, dear," she said.
And — and you won't ever tell anyone . . . about last
—night . . .?"

"Sonia I"

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 263

The girl's cheeks flamed.

"Thank you. I knew you wouldn't, of course."

She went away then, and Lady Merriam fell to munch-
ing toast again with rather less appetite than before.

"I give it up!" she said at last, shrugging her lace-
covered shoulders.

And the next day Montague came to lunch. To
Sonia, sitting opposite him silent and pale, it seemed
somehow absurd that one must still have meals and make
oneself look nice when one carried a dead thing about
in place of a living, pulsating heart.

Montague was looking radiant; he was more smartly
dressed than Lady Merriam ever remembered seeing
him; he wore a little knot of violets in his coat.

Violets! Sonia tried not to see them, but every
moment they seemed to attract her gaze and hold it
against her will.

If she had ever had any doubt before concerning her
feelings towards this man whom she was so soon to
marry, this meeting after a separation of nearly a fort-
night would have decided her once and forever.

She cared nothing for him; she found herself looking
at him with a curiously cold criticism; she disliked the
way he brushed his hair; she disliked the color of his
tie ; she disliked his too attentive manner towards herself.

When they rose from the table she whispered an
agitated appeal to Lady Merriam not to leave them, but
Lady Merriam either misunderstood or found Mon-
tague's cool hints too much for even her savoir-faire ;
and presently Sonia and he were alone.

Sonia went over to stand by the fire ; she would gladly
have put the width of the room between them, but she
knew that wherever she went he would follow her, and
she could not very well make herself ridiculous.

264 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

He was beside her in an instant

"Sonia! Haven't you anything to say to me after all
this time?"

His arms were about her, his face bent to hers ; Sonia
tried not to shrink from him, but she felt as if her whole
body were set in iron; unconsciously she clenched her
hands.

"All this time! Has it seemed so long? It isn't quite
a fortnight yet." She hardly knew her own voice;
she did not wonder at the strange look of doubt that
crept into his eyes ; he turned her almost forcibly so that
the light from the window fell full on her face.

For an instant she bore the scrutiny of his gaze, then
she jerked her face sharply away.

"Don't . . . don't ... I can't bear it. . . ."

There was a little silence, then Montague said harshly :

"You're not going to throw me over as you did Chat-
terton — ^within a day or two of the wedding, are you?"

There was something so brutal and unexpected in the
attack that Sonia cried out as if he had struck her ; she
had never seen him look like this before; never heard
that tone in his voice ; it seemed as if she were looking
into the face of a stranger.

Montague caught her wrist roughly drawing her nearer
to him.

"You can't play that sort of game with me, Sonia,
3rou know; I'm not going to stand meekly by and be
made a fool of. You wanted to marry me; every-
thing that has happened has been of your own doing;
you didn't mind going behind Chatterton's back at one
time to let me make love to you. Ah! you haven't
forgotten that!"

He laughed savagely as she winced. BafHdd rage and
passion had complete mastery of him. For the moment

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 263

he lost sight of everything but the fact that it was dis-
like that had looked at him out of her eyes, that it was
clear that she was not glad to see him again. He was
naturally an egotistical man, but even his vanity was
not able now to blind him to that look in Sonia's face.

His mood changed suddenly. He lifted her hands
to his lips, passionately kissing them. He was the ador-
ing lover once more.

"Forgive me, sweetheart. I hardly know what I am
saying. But if you knew how I have looked forward
to this moment, and now you are so cold! I know
you never loved me as I loved you; but I'll make you.
When you are my wife things will be different. It's
only two days now, Sonia." His voice fell again into
its old persuasive tones that were so like Chatterton's.

But it was too late. That brief glimpse of this
stranger had frightened Sonia. She was trembling
and panting as she tried to hold him away. It had
come to her with a shock of realization how little, how
very little she knew of him after all, and that to-day
it seemed as if she were going to marry a stranger.

She broke out whimperingly :

"If you would only wait a little longer. It's so
soon — why can't we wait a little while — ^just till the war
is over. . . ."

There was something childish in the appeal ; something
that angered Montague afresh. He loosed his hold of
her so roughly that she almost fell.

"When the war is over!" he echoed savagely. "That
means never! This is only an excuse. You've put
me off before. You'll marry me on Thursday as you
promised, or never! I'll not be made a fool of as
Chatterton was. ..." A sudden idea struck him. He
broke out, once more beside himself. "Perhaps you're

266 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

hankering after him now he's dead! That's a woman
all over — ^always wanting the thing out of her reach!
I suppose if I were to go off V.C. hunting, as he did,
you'd swing round in my direction again like a weather-
vane."

"How dare you V*

Sonia was white no longer; a wave of burning color
crimsoned her face from brow to chin; this cutting
allusion to Chatterton had roused her as nothing else
could have done ; she faced him with panting breast and
flashing eyes.

"You coward, you!" she said, with passionate con-
tempt. "You coward! To speak like that of a dead
man !"

There was a tragic silence; the sudden way she had
turned on him sobered Montague; he saw in an instant
what he had done.

Sonia turned towards the door; she was trembling in
every limb.

But as her fingers touched the handle Montague caught
her; he was deathly white now; he stanunered as he
spoke.

"Sonia! For God's sake, don't go like this! You
must forgive me; I take back every word I said — 111
go on my knees to you if you like. I was mad — mad
to say such things. I never meant one word of it at all 1
. . . Sonia — Sonia, . . •"

Sonia stood very still and cold; she wondered if she
had grown very hard all at once that it mattered nothing
to her that there was an agony of pleading in this man's
voice.

Then she released her fingers^ — gently, but firmly.

"Please let me go !"

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 267

But still he barred her way with his shoulder against
the door.

"You'll forgive me — you'll see me again this even-
tog! It's only because I love you So. It nearly drove
me mad to think that perhaps you were going to throw
me over . . ."

He broke oflF as someone tapped at the door. Lady
Merriam's maid entered.

"If you please, miss, her ladyship wishes to speak to
you."

Sonia passed a hand across her eyes.

"I'll come at once. Is it — is it anything important,
do you know?" She asked the question without any
real wish for an answer, and she was totally unprepared
for the maid's reply.

"I think it's your wedding dress from Elise, miss.'*

There was a moment's silence. Montague had turned
sharply away, catching his breath with almost a groan.
For an instant Sonia could not find her voice: then,
"I'll come at once," she said uncertainly.

The maid went away. Montague stood staring down
into the fire; he had made no movement to come back
to Sonia.

She stood for a moment looking at him; then she
went slowly out of the room, shutting the door behind
her.

Sometimes a very small thing will awaken one to a
real danger when greater warnings have been passed
unheeded.

The unconsciously poignant words of Lady Merriam's
maid when she spoke of Sonia's wedding dress had been
like a firm hand deliberately tearing from the girl's eyes
the illusionary veil of fatalism.

In a dumb way Sonia had believed she could force

268 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

herself to go on with this marriage; she had blindly
believed that it was her duty to do so; but for that
momentary outburst on Montague's part she would prob-
ably have carried it through with the indifference of
lethargy. But now. She went to her own room,
ignoring Lady Merriam's message, and stood leaning
against the closed door with a sense of overpowering
weakness.

Her wedding dress !

So many memories came crowding back with the sim-
ple words! Memories of happy dreams, and wonder-
castles that had all fallen from their slender founda-
tions.

Her wedding dress! And if she went on with this
marriage, in two more days she would wake and realize
that the inevitable had come at last ; that she was caught
— ^trapped.

The soft palms of her hands felt damp at the mere
thought of it.

". . . If I were to rush off V.C. hunting as Chatterton
•did* . . ."

The mean-spirited, sneering words came back to her
vaguely. How different they were to that mention of
Montague in Chatterton's last letter!

". . . He was always a better fellow than I. . . . He'll
make you happy; I was fond of him once, and if
I hate him now, it isn't his fault, or yours, but my

own. . . ."

How wrongly she had judged these two men! How
little she had really known of either of them after all!

At that moment it seemed as if she could recall noth-
ing in Montague's favor; for the first time his many
little subterfuges and petty untruthfulnesses seemed to
pass before her eyes in their true colors.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 269

He had known that Richard had enlisted, and yet kept
it back from her; he had known that Richard was in
France fighting for England, when he had represented
to her that he had rushed oflF to America to escape his
liabilities; he had openly stated that Richard was cod-
dling himself with influenza, when he had been
wounded.

She had known all this before, and yet it had never
struck home to her as it did now ; she began to wonder
if perhaps the whole of these past months had not been
a clever trap set to trip her unwary feet.

A woman is seldom just to a man for whom she
cares nothing ; it is no argument to tell her that probably
all he has done has been for her sake — ^that his love for
her is greater than his own honor.

She clenched her hands, and for a moment shut her
eyes tightly.

This marriage was impossible! She was mad — ^ut-
terly mad.

She felt as if she were stifling. She walked across
to the window and flung it wide.

The street below was very quiet and deserted. It
looked a long, long way down to the pavement.

She shuddered a little, and drew back. Something
made her afraid of herself. She knew that all she had
gone through during the past weeks had told upon her
and weakened her nerve. The old longing to get away
— ^to be alone — swept through her heart. To be just left
to herself.

But where could she go? They would follow her to
Burvale. They would follow her wherever she went.
And, besides, it would break Lady Merriam's heart
if she went away without telling her where she was
going.

270 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

There came a tap at the door. Lady Merriam herself
entered.

''Sonia! have you forgotten my message? Elise has
sent your wedding frock, and you simply must come and
see it. It's a dream."

Sonia joined her at the door.

"I'm coming now."

She went back across the landing to Lady Merriam's
room. The maid had laid the frock carefully out on
the bed. It looked like a white robed woman who had
cast herself down to weep Sonia thought with a little
shiver.

She went over and stood beside it, but something kept
her from touching it.

Lady Merriam was in ecstasies.

"It's really a triumph! Elise has surpassed herself.
I shall really h^ve to try and pay her something on
account to let her see how much I appreciate it! I
should love to see you in it, but, of course, it's so
frightfully unlucky! Something always happens to a
bride who tries on her wedding gown before the
day."

Sonia made no comment; the sense of panic and ex-
citement had left her; she felt strangely cool and calm;
she looked down at the expensive gown made for her
to wear with a sense of utter impersonality.

*T shall never wear it," was the thought in her heart.
"I shall never wear it."

"It's very nice — ^very nice indeed," she said aloud.

"Nice !" Lady Merriam cried. "What a word to choose.
Why, every other girl in London would be raving about
it." She was a trifle piqued; she told the maid tartly
to put it away.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 271

Sonia went back to her room; she sat down at a
writing-table in the window, and took up her pen.

For a moment she hesitated, then she began to write
swiftly :

"Dear Lady Mebriam,

"I hope you will forgive me for what I am going
to do, but it is utterly impossible for me to marry
Francis. I thought I could, but when I saw my wed-
ding dress I knew that it was utterly impossible. So I
am going away. I shall be quite safe, and I am not
going to do anything foolish — ^please believe me; and
later on, when everyone has forgotten to talk about me,
I will write to you. I know it seems horribly ungrate-
ful of me, but it is the only way. Will you give the
enclosed to Francis? Please forgive me for all the
worry I have caus^ you.

Yours lovingly,

Sonia."

The enclosure for Montague was short.

"... I suppose I ought to ask you to forgive me,
but somehow I can't. I hope you will forget me, and
meet someone else. You were quite right about Rich-
ard — I always loved him — I always shall love him; it
makes no difference at all that he is dead."

She put the few lines into an envelope and enclosed
it with the letter for Lady Merriam, then she laid down
thie pen and stood up with a long sigh of relief.

She had opened the door to freedom.

She put on her hat and coat and packed a few things
into a suit-case.

Lady Merriam was probably asleep — Montague would
have surely gone long since; she took all the money she
had in her possession and went out on to the landing.

There was no one about; she hesitated for a moment
outside Lady Merriam's door. It seemed so unkind
to go without one word of farewell ; tears came into her
eyes; Lady Merriam had always been so good to her,
and twice she had disappointed all her hopes.

272 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

She turned hastily away and ran down the staircase.

Downstairs she asked the porter to call a taxicab for
her. She told the driver to take her to Paddington. But
before they had gone more than a hundred yards she
altered it to Victoria.

She knew that the hotel porter had heard her first
direction. No doubt he would be questioned and re-
member what she had said.

She looked out at the street with a strange sort of
feeling. She wondered if this were how heroines in
story books felt when they ran off to escape an un-
welcome marriage. She felt anything but a heroine
herself. If the truth must be told, she was a little
frightened.

She had been about so little by herself. London
seemed almost like a strange city now she was so en-
tirely independent.

There was a military band marching down the Strand.
She turned her eyes away from the khaki-clad figures
with a little chill feeling of sickness.

Supposing she had dreamed these last few days and
suddenly wakened to find Richard alive and well and
waiting for her?

Supposing now, instead of this wild rush to escape
a man whom she did not love, she were going to meet
Richard ?

Useless dreaming, when one remembered those few
heart-breaking lines in the papers.

"I shall always love you ... I shall die loving
you . . ."

So he had writen in that last letter.

And at least now she would be free all her life to
mourn him and love his memory. The long game of
pretence was ended.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 273

"Mr. Jardine will be glad " she thought with a

little warmth at her heart. "He will be glad any-
way . . ."

And, altliough she did not know it, at that very mo-
ment a taxicab with Old Jardine in it, red-faced and
excited, and unable to sit still for a very fever of im-
patience, dashed past her own, in the direction of the
hotel where Lady Merriam was peacefully enjoying her
afternoon siesta.

He hurled himself from it almost before it pulled
up at the door; he threw the man twice his fare, and
rushed into the hotel as if half a German army corps
were at his heels. The lift was in use, but he could not
wait ; he panted up the stairs to Lady Merriam*s sitting-
room and flung wide the door with scant ceremony.

The room was empty, and after a blank moment of
disappointment he dashed across it and rang the bell
furiously, keeping his finger on the ivory button till a
couple of scared-looking servants appeared upon the
scene to know what was the matter.

Old Jardine was almost apoplectic by that time.

"Lady Merriam — Miss Markham! Fetch 'em — ^both
of 'em — or one of 'em. Damn itl Don't stand and
stare at me — fetch 'em, I say!"

He dashed his silk hat down on the table, and mopped
his hot face with a large handkerchief ; he could not keep
still a moment.

Lady Merriam herself appeared in the doorway.

Gracious! What is the matter?" she asked in alarm.
I thought there must be a madman in the room. How
do you imagine I'm going to sleep with such a noise?"
Her drowsy eyes suddenly saw the excitement in Old
Jardine's face; she took a quick step forward, gripping

€<

274 RICIL\RD CHATTERTON, V.C.

his arm. "What is it ? What in the name of gocxhiess
is the matter ?"

"Matter! Richard Chatterton is alive — ^it was all a
disgraceful bltmdering mistake! Fve told the War
Office what I think of 'em — I'll write to every paper
in London and show the Government up ! He's alive —
been alive all the time," he added. "Alive and in a
French hospital!"

Lady Merriam screamed. "Alive! Not dead! In a
French hospital! Oh, good heavens!"

For a moment she stared at Old Jardine open-mouthed;
then she burst into tears.

"I am so glad!" she sobbed incongruously. "I am so
glad — I never felt so glad about anything in all my life."

"You've got a queer way of showing it then, my
dear," said Old Jardine, half-angrily, half-sympathetically.
His own eyes were a bit misty. In the excitement of
the moment neither of them noticed that he had called
Lady Merriam "my dear" ; at least — ^Lady Merriam did,
but she pretended not to.

He patted her shoulder soothingly with his plump
hand, and, finding that she had forgotten her handker-
chief, produced his own silk one, and pressed it into
her jeweled fingers.

It was slightly scented with cigar smoke, but Lady
Merriam did not mind ; she mopped her eyes vigorously.

"How did you find — out?*' she asked on the top of a
sob. "And are you sure that it's really right this time
and not another mistake?"

"I got it from Haileybury's brother at the War Office ;
he really has taken a lot of trouble. Every day I've
been down there, badgering him and making myself a
confounded nuisance; and this afternoon — I was having
my lunch — ^he sent up for me, and there it all was in

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 275

black and white and red tape — ^Richard Chattereton,
V.C, not killed, but seriously wounded.

"Seriously wounded, mind you, and there's not the
least doubt that he ought to be dead according to the
accounts of his wounds, but he isn't. He's in some
duchess's hospital in France and making a gallant fight
for it. I shall go over at once. Haileybury's seeing
about passports for me. Oh! and Chatterton's got his
commission — it's only a lieutenancy, but apparently that's
all anyone can get for a start! Lieutenant, indeed! —
they ought to have made him a brigadier-general, or
something," he grumbled, with a twinkle in his eye.

Lady Merriam laughed.

"He'll make a name for himself yet.'*

Old Jardine rounded on her in a flash.

"Make a name! Bless the woman, what more does
she want? Hasn't he made his name already? Gad!
if he were my son, I should burst myself with pride!
He's got the V.C, madam, and you can't beat that all
the world over !"

He began strutting up and down, and preening himself
like a turkey-cock. "Richard Chatterton, V.C. ! how does
it sound? How will it sound to all his so-called friends
when he comes home ? A laggard, was he ? Pshaw !"

He glared at Lady Merriam as if she were responsible
for having made the statement. "The bravest man in
London! No, I'll even go as far as to say the bravest
man in all England/' he declared enthusiastically.

Lady Merriam rose.
Now you're talking rubbish,'* she said briskly.
There are hundreds of men quite as brave as Richard,
who'll never be heard of, and don't forget it. Not that
I'm belittling him — far from it ! But every hero doesn't
get recognition, you know; and in my opinion all

276 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

the men who go out there to fight now are heroes ; they
should all have the V.C. if I had my way."

Old Jardine calmed down.

'And now who's going to tell Sonia?" he asked.
^She's in her room." Lady Merriam looked a little
disturbed. "Her wedding dress came home this after-
noon," she went on with a trace of anxiety in her kind
voice. "George, I wonder if this is going to put the
fat in the fire again?"

"Fat in the fire? I don't understand."

"You know she's to be married on Thursday?'*

Old Jardine scowled.

"Well, well," he temporized. "It 's only Tuesday now,
and there's many a slip between the cup and the lip,
you know. Just go and fetch her, will you?"

Lady Merriam was turning away from the empty
room with a little depressed sigh when she caught sight
of an envelope tucked into the frame of the dressing-
table mirror.

It was evidently stuck there for the purpose of being
seen, and for a moment she stood looking across at it,
a little pulse of apprehension hammering in her throat,
before she swept forward across the room and grabbed
it up.

It was addressed to herself.

She tore open the envelope and drew out its contents.

She read through the few lines without taking in a
single word of it beyond the main fact. Her head was
swimming. When, presently, she dragged herself back
to where Old Jardine was waiting in feverish impatience,
she sank into the nearest chair with a gasp.

"Soma's gone." She held out to him the little letter.

She felt like the heroine in a scene of melodrama. A
3ense of utter helplessness enveloped her.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 277

Sonia had gone! There would be more gossip for
society papers to-morrow. Another wedding postponed !
More transparent excuses to be manufactured and de-
livered in the proper quarters!

Old Jardine read the little note through. He did not
look very surprised and not at all upset.

"I knew she'd never go through with it," he said with
a sort of grim satisfaction. "She's a dear child! a dear
child!"

She's a foolish child!" said Lady Merriam sharply.

Goodness knows what people will say this time!"

And what does it matter what they say? You

women think too much of what people say and think!"

Lady Merriam was clutching the little enclosure foTr

Montague. She handed it to old Jardine suddenly and

rather maliciously.

Here's another little job for you," she said drily.
I'm not going to be the one to deliver it."
Old Jardine glanced at the brief inscription on the
folded note, and a gleam of relish came into his eyes.
He took it from Lady Merriam with alacrity.

A job after my own heart," he said as he pocketed it.
And now what is the next step to be taken?"
^'We must find Sonia."
She asks you not to. She wants to be left alone,
and very natural, too; but I wish she knew about
Dick. . . ."

"She will know, if she reads the papers. And as to
not trying to find her, what do you take me for? She's
in my care; I'm responsible for her. I shall put on
my hat and coat and go to the police at once."

"Ridiculous! Absurd! The child isn't a criminal.
We don't want a scandal. Let people think she's gone
down to Burvale ; they'll think it without any help from

278 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

you as soon as it's known the wedding is off. You
keep calm and leave it all to me."

Lady Merriam gave in resignedly. She was really
distracted by this new turn of affairs. She had rather
enjoyed maneuvering Soma's first broken engagement —
but a second!

Old Jardine went downstairs. He questioned the hall
porter diplomatically, or so he thought, and heard that
Sonia had gone to Paddington.

That puzzled him.

He spent the whole evening making inquiries. He got
a list of likely people to whom she might have gone
from Lady Merriam, but they all proved a blank, and
at ten o'clock at night he realized the futility of search-
ing further.

He would have to wait till the morning, at all events.
Tired, and rather hungry — for in the excitement he had
forgone his dinner— he went home.

It was only when he was taking off his coat in the
hall that he remembered the letter for Montague which
Lady Merriam had given him; his hand came into con-
tact with it in the depths of a pocket.

He took it out reflectively. Well, he would find the
fellow after he had had something to eat and deliver it.

He was turning towards the dining-room when the
door opened and Montague himself stood on the
threshold.

He wore his overcoat and carried a hat in his hand.

"I've been waiting here nearly an hour," he began
agitatedly. "I went round to the hotel and Lady Mer-
riam refused to see me and refused to allow me to
see Sonia. She referred me to you. Perhaps you will
kindly explain what the devil all this mystery is abcmt."

Old Jardine rubbed his hands.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 279

"I shall have much pleasure in doing so," he said.
But won't you take off your coat? The rooms are hot."
I'm not staying." He followed the old man into the
dining-room. "It's no use playing any of your tricks
on me, Jardine," he said with a sort of savagery. "Fm
not Chatterton, you know, and I doii't want any of
your old woman interference in my affairs. What has
happened, and why am I not to be allowed to see Sonia ?"

Old Jardine's eyes had a nasty gleam in them, but he
kept his temper beautifully.

He poured himself some whisky and answered, as he
added the soda:

"I imagine that you did not see Miss Markham for
the very good reason that she is no longer staying at the
hotel; she left this afternoon."

"That's a damned lie !"

Montague took a step forward, then stopped; some-
thing in Old Jardine's steady gaze was very threatening;
he began to bluster.

"It's not true; it can't be true; I lunched with her —
I was to see her again this evening. You seem to forget
that we are to be married on Thursday. . . ." His voice
shook.

For the life of him Old Jardine could not help feeling
sorry for him; his brusque voice softened a little as
he answered:

"She's gone, Montague — ^that's all I know; she left
a note in her room for Lady Merriam and an enclosure
for you. Here it is."

He laid the folded paper on the table between them.

Montague snatched it up ; his hands shook so he could
hardly unfold it.

There was a tragic silence; then Montague dropped
into a chair and groaned.

28o RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

Old Jardine scratched his chin.

"You must have seen it coming all along, you know,"
he began awkwardly. "She was never really happy or
settled in her engagement to you."

Montague looked up, but there was no grief in his
face; only a fierce hatred and passion that shocked his
companion.

"This is some of your infernal meddling," he broke
out furiously. "You always championed Chatterton —
after that affair at the club. You've played on her
feelings — ^you've run him for all you're worth, and now
this infernal V.C. business."

Old Jardine held up his hand.

"I'm quite willing to make every allowance for you,
Montague," he said quietly, "but I can't allow you to
talk like that. Miss Markham was never influenced
by me, or by anything that has happened to Richard.
He was always the man for her, and my advice to
you is to take it like a man, and . . ."

"Take it like a fool, you mean," Montague struck
in furiously. "Take it like a fool, and let her go, I
suppose! But I'll marry her in spite of you and all
the meddlers in the world. She'll soon want me back
when she gets over this sentimental infatuation for a
dead man. Sonia is only flesh and blood after all,
and . . ."

Old Jardine put down his whisky glass; he turned
very slowly, and looked down at Montague's rage-
distorted face.

"But Chatterton is not dead," he said very quietly.

Afterwards, recounting the interview to Lady Mer-
riam, old Jardine was inclined to be rueful.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 281

"He looked as if I'd stabbed him," he said dramatic-
ally. "Ton my word, I felt ashamed of myself till
he recovered, and then . . . well! I'm trying to forget
now that I ever liked the man!

"He cursed me up hill and down dale. . . . Oh, yes,
I've no doubt he was very fond of Sonia, but it's
quite possible to be fond of a woman and still behave
like a man instead of a beast. He said he'd make
her pay for having thrown him over if it took him a
lifetime; he said he'd get even with Richard, he said
. . . oh, he said a lot of tomfool rot that I didn't pay
any attention to ; but I shall put Dick on his guard."

"There is a wise old saying about never counting one's
chickens before they are hatched," said Lady Merriam
mildly. "You talk as if Sonia and Richard were mar-
ried, whereas Sonia is — ^goodness knows where! and
Richard still undecided whether to live or die. "If
I only knew where that child has got to," she added.
There was a worried line between her kindly eyes.
"Sonia has never been used to knocking about by her-
self ; anything might happen to her."

"But nothing will," said old Jardine soothingly.

''You're always so optimistic," she declared. "But
I shan't sleep a wink for wondering what has become
of her."

Sonia was quite close, had they but known it.

Fropi the moment when she found herself alone at
Victoria everything became like a bewildering dream to
her.

The noise and bustle and crowds of hurrying people
confused her; she stood for a moment clutching her
dressing-case, looking after the departing taxicab with
wistful eyes.

282 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

A porter asked her if ^e had any luggage, but she
shook her head and hurried by.

She had not the least idea where she was going; it
was beginning to dawn upon her now that she had be-
haved rather foolishly. She looked round at the other
people in the room; there were a couple of Belgian
women — refugees — with pale, hopeless faces and eyes
that seemed to have lost all expression.

On the seat next to them was a young woman in
widow's weeds, with a child sleeping in her arms.

There was so much sorrow in the world. Each of
these women could have told of a tragedy that had
blasted their lives and broken their hearts. Sonia looked
at them all with a sort of wonderment.

It was marvelous how people went on living in spite
of everything, she thought; marvelous that poor human
nature could stand so much.

She felt very tired; the light suit-case was beginning
to feel absurdly heavy. She set it down by the book-
stall and glanced idly at the papers and magazines.

Ever)rv\rhere pictures of the war met her eyes. A field
battery in action — a wounded soldier — Red Cross men
searching a battlefield by lantern light. She bit her lip
hard and turned her eyes away.

Was that how they found Richard? — found him and
carried him in?

A couple of girls brushed against her — ^they were talk-
ing together excitedly.

''No. 6 platform, one porter said— oh, do let 's hurry,
or we shan't see them "

Her eyes read the question in Sonia's.

"Wounded soldiers coming from the front," she ex-
plained.

Sonia's interest was roused — she too would wait and

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 283

see these men, these battered heroes who had been re-
stored to the arms of those who loved them. She followed
in the wake of the two girls, and found hersdlf in a
crowd held back by the police. Everybody was excited
and enthusiastic; a few irrepressible spirits wore small
flags in their coats — ^many of the women were laden with
chocolates and cigarettes.

Sonia stood amongst them, silent and sad — ^the man she
loved would never come back to her — ^her aching arms
would be empty always — ^always !

"Stand back there — stand back "

A stalwart custodian of the law came along, forcing
back the eager crowd; Sonia was crushed in amongst
them; she felt a little faint and nervous; she appealed
to a man to let her pass out

He good-naturedly made a passage for her; she was
relieved to find herself in an open space again. She
was turning back to the shelter of the waiting-room,
when a girl running from one of the passages leading
from the station nearly collided with her.

She pulled up hurriedly, with a little laugh and apology,
then stopped, smiling, and holding out her hand.

"Miss Markham!"

It was little Nurse Anderson.

Sonia flushed crimson; but the warm color soon died
away, leaving her very pale; it was an effort to force
herself to speak.

She was remembering how many times she had seen
this girl with Richard; remembering that last night at
Waterloo,

Try as she would, she could not make her voice
friendly.

"You are here to meet the troop train, of course,"

284 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

she said constrainedly. "I wanted to wait too, but the
crowd is so great."

Little Nurse Anderson looked round her with sym-
pathetic eyes.

"The people are here every night," she said. "They
stand waiting for hours just to give the men a cheer/*

"Yes," said Sonia.

Her old jealousy was returning. Richard had loved
her, and her only! but this other girl had had his last
smile and the companionship of the last few days of his
life in London. She made a little movement as if to
go on.

"Please don't let me keep you — ^I know you must be
very busy "

She held out her hand; there was the least possible
hesitancy before Nurse Anderson advanced her own to-
wards it. She was wearing no gloves. Sonia glanced
down involuntarily at the soft touch of bare fingers, then
• . . then the words trembling on her lips died away.
She stared disbelievingly at the small, firm hand,
for the third finger was barred by a ring she had seen
before — ^a ring that she had pictured so often in a tor-
tured imagination as lying somewhere on a cold, dead
hand. . . . Richard Chatterton's ring!

It was only with a tremendous effort that she kept
herself from crying out; only by almost superhuman
control that she forced herself to speak a formal good-by
before Nurse Anderson ran oflf into the crowd and dis-
appeared.

Sonia stood where she was with a dazed sort of feel-
ing; the sight of that ring on this other woman's hand
turned her faint and sick.

Richard's ring! It was impossible that she could
have been mistaken. So many times she had laughingly

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 285

chaffed him about it and his almost inordinate pride in it.

He had told her in the early days of their first friend-
ship that it had been his father's and grandfather's ; that
the rather worn crest stamped on it had been the Chat-
tertons' crest for centuries. He had even refused to
give it to her when once she had half seriously asked
for it. But he had given it to Nurse Anderson. He
had given it to this stranger woman.

Richard's ring! The two words danced before her
burning eyes like imps of mischief ; she was hardly con-
scious of her movements as she walked out of the station.
The great yard was dismal, with its many obscured
lights; a man on the curbstone looked after her with
admiring familiarity. Sonia took fright.

She turned abruptly, and started to run across the
road; the incidents of this evening had been the last
straw that had broken down the self-control she had
tried so desperately to maintain ; she felt broken-hearted
— ^utterly reckless.

There was nothing left for her in the whole desolate
world ; even the memories that had saved her from utter
despair were being spoilt and torn from her. She could
not forget that Chatterton's last letter had been written
before he knew Nurse Anderson; her bitter jealousy told
her that he had changed since then — that he must have
changed to have given his ring to another woman.

She had forgotten where she was — forgotten every-
thing but her own gnawing misery. A harsh voice shout-
ing to her shook her violently from her dreaming;
gleaming motor headlights dazzled her; she stood still,
terrified — a scream rose to her throat, which was drowned
in the grinding of powerful brakes and a man's oaths;
a big car was brought to a panting standstill within a
yard of her — ^the man at the wheel sprang out:

286 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"What the devil ... My Godl— Sonia!"

Sonia lifted apathetic eyes to his face; she showed
no least surprise when her eyes met Montague's ; she was
past caring — ^past realizing what a strange coincidence
it was that had thrown her across his path.

In her extremity she only realized in a subconscious
way that here was someone who had once been kind
to her. She was like a drowning man, catching at a last
straw before sinking forever; she held shaking hands
to him.

"Oh, Francis ! Oh, Francis !" The appeal was little
more than a whimper, but even so her voice trailed
away in a sobbing whisper as she reeled giddily, and
was caught in Montague's eager arms.

CHAPTER XXII

A SUDDEN shock or grief affects people very dif-

/A ferently; one talks glibly of the "softening in-

^ -^ fluence of grief," but with Francis Montague

it, seemed to bring out all that was worst and weakest

in his character.

His first mad rage drove him from Old Jardine's room
to seek Lady Merriam ; it was strange that he never once
blamed Sonia herself; he was sure that she had not
acted of her own free will — conceit dies hard in a man.

Lady Merriam was still writing letters when he reached
the hotel; he left his big car snorting in the courtyard
outside, and went straight up ta her private sitting-room.

Lady Merriam had spent a very worried time since
Old Jardine had left her; she had taken great trouble
to manufacture a plausible story with which to satisfy
interested and curious people; a whole pile of stamped,
addressed envelopes stood at her elbow; when she saw
Montague she dropped her pen agitatedly and rose to
her feet.

"I gave orders that I was not at home to you," she
said.

In spite of her plumpness, Lady Merriam could be
very dignified when she chose, and against his will Mon-
tague was slightly impressed. For a moment he forgot
to sneer, or be insolent; he stood staring at her with
haggard eyes.

"I must apologize for this intrusion, then," he said at

287

288 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

last reluctantly. "If you will give me Sonia's address,
I will leave at once.*'

"I have no more idea where she is than you have,**
her ladyship retorted with energy. "Not that I should
tell you, if I knew. It's entirely your fault all this
has occurred; a nice thing for a young attractive girl
like Sonia to be running wild in London with this terrible
war waging!"

"The war isn't waging in London," said Montague
rudely. "And if it were. . . . It's that damned old fool
Jardine who's brought all this about," he raved. "I'll
make him pay for it — ^interfering old numskull. . . ."

Lady Merriam looked daggers.

"I think you are forgetting yourself. Mr. Jardine is
a great friend of mine."

Montague sneered.

"I am sorry that I cannot congratulate either of you,"
he said with studied insolence.

Lady Merriam crossed to the fireplace; she kept her
finger on the bell-push till a servant appeared, then

"Kindly show this — ^person— out," she said.

Montague departed with as good a grace as possible;
he knew that he had made an enemy of Lady Merriam
for life, but he was past caring; out in the night, he
stood by the open door of the big yellow car looking
helplessly up and down the street.

Where could he go? where could he look for Sonia?

And Chatterton was alive ! any moment she might hear

of that, and then He ground his teeth in impotent

helplessness.

In his jealous imagination he could picture Chatterton,
interestingly bandaged, l)dng in a bower of flowers, sur-
rounded by charming nurses, pampered and worshiped.
He judged everything by the period of his own accident.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 289

spent in a private and expensive West End nursing home,
where he had had every conceivable luxury, and in which
he had been attended by a couple of Harley Street
specialists.

Perhaps he would have been a little shocked and a
great deal amazed could the veil of distance have been
lifted for a moment, and he could have seen Richard
Chatterton, a suffering unit of humanity, in an over-
crowded, over-worked base hospital

A huge, bare room, with row upon row of beds, and
bare, unlovely walls, hung here and there with maps
and illustrated alphabets, indicating that in happier times
it had been a school.

Although it was some distance from the firing-line,
as one counts distance in stricken France, the dull
boom of the guns could plainly be heard. The heavy
report seemed to shake the foundations beneath those
narrow beds, and jar the poor tortured bodies afresh.

And yet this was comfort, compared with the rough
field hospital to which they had first taken Chatterton.
Paradise when he recalled in his weary, pain-numbed
brain the endless journey back from that field of dead
and dying; the excruciating suffering every time the
ambulance wagon jolted over a road or a deep rut left
by the mud and rain of winter.

Even the blessed mercy of imconsciousness had been
denied to him after the first little while, and he had
had to lie there, racked in every limb, parched with in-
satiable thirst, biting his cracked and swollen lips in a
vain endeavor to keep back the sheer groans of agony
that rent him.

The first-aid men had done their best ; they had roughly
dressed his wounds, and made him as comfortable as it

290 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

lay in their power to do ; but there is a limit to the most
willing human endeavor.

But now at least he had a bed to lie on, and someone
to put cooling drink to his fevered lips; someone to
sometimes turn his pillow when it seemed to scorch like
fire.

A gray-haired, capable woman, whose face seemed set
in lines of grim forbearance and self-control by reason
of all she had endured, was what he saw in those fleeting
moments of consciousness when the black fog of stupor
lifted from his brain and gave him back the power to
think.

She was middle-aged and unbeautiful, and yet — a fel-
low's head gets so muddled under the strain of suffering
and weakness, that once he thought she was Sonia —
Sonia, whom he had loved years and years ago, before
they put him on the rack and broke and twisted his body.

He had caught at her hand as she straightened the
clothes about his shoulders and called to her softly:

"Sonia !"

For a moment the grimness of her mouth had wavered
and softened a little ; for a moment she had let her hand
lie in his feeble clasp, before she gently withdrew it,
and said, in her clear, practical voice:

"Lie still and try and sleep."

Sleep! That was what they expected him to do all
day long; but it was very absurd — so absurd that once
he tried to explain to them that he could not possibly
obey unless they took the pain away. But nobody
listened, and afterwards he wondered if it had been
only in his brain that the explanation had been attempted.

Sometimes he tried to tell the doctor — a, worried-look-
ing young man who talked a lot in professional terms
and seemed very interested in his wounds— but it was

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 291

always the wounds they talked about and were interested
in, never the man, never he himself, with his unhappy,
tired-out brain and that inexplicable longing for someone
— something! What was it that he always craved for?
What was that want that seemed to be eating into his
heart, night and. day, day and night?

Once his half-waking consciousness was broken by the
sound of a woman's voice singing. It sounded a great
way off, and yet it could only have been in the next
ward, where the men were on the road to convalescence
and already turning their faces towards England!

England! What a magic word it was when a man
never thought to see it again . . . and the woman's
voice! It was a strange voice to him, and yet it
seemed symbolical of everything he had ever loved —
ever3rthing he had ever wanted. He did not know what
song it was that she sang — ^he had dropped back again
almost immediately into that appalling weak unconscious-
ness he had so grown to dread; but at least it helped
him to his dreams — took him gently by the hand and
led his feeble steps back to a garden where there were
roses and a girl with sweet eyes and a shy smile; a girl
who had once loved him, and whom he was sure he, too,
had loved very dearly.

But he could not remember — ^it all seemed so long
ago ; even her name he had forgotten. . . .

"Sonia!" Something seemed to whisper it against
his heart. "Sonia!" Ah, that was it! The dear,
quaint little name that had drawn him to her the first
time he ever heard it.

Sonia, whom he was to marry — but she was al-
ready married! She had married his friend — Francis
Montague! His friend! — ^his enemy! The man who
had stolen her, damn him! the man whom he hated —

apa RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

whom ... if he could only get to him. . . . He strug-
gled to rise, but was forced back by firm hands. He
opened his eyes with a groan — ^he had not known till
now that they were closed — ^and found the worried-look-
ing young doctor bending over him.

The dream fell away then ; he realized that they were
dressing his wounds again, pouring more liquid fire and
agony into his body — ^giving him a fresh taste of the
hell through which they had already dragged him so
many times.

He clenched his jaws to prevent himself groaning;
the young doctor glanced up from his work with mo-
mentary kindliness.

"Hurt very much?" he asked.

"Like . . . like the devil . . .** Chatterton tried to
laugh as he spoke, but the attempt broke off into an
ugly, jarring groan.

Presently, when the appalling weakness came flooding
back again, making him feel as if he were floating

m air

Am I going under, doctor?"

Afterwards he supposed he must have asked the ques-
tion, but he could not recognize his own breathless voice.

The young man answered cheerily:

"You're doing famously . . . but you must helf your-
self; you must stick to it tooth and nail. Try and
look forward — ^try and think of the future — ^it's not
every man who's recommended for the V.C, you know."

It took some time for that to penetrate the cloud of
pain and stupor, then

The V.C? Who— who has the V.C?"
He tried to be politely interested, but it was such an
effort.

"Why, you, of course," the young doctor answered

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 293

breezily. "You're Richard Chatterton, aren't you ? Yes,
I know you are! Well, you've been mentioned in dis-
patches and gazetted a lieutenant, and recommended for
the V.C. for two acts of gallantry, and all the rest of it !
Think what it means, and pull yourself together. Think
what your people will say when you get home — ^how
proud they'll be."

"My people . . . !" The momentary elation fell away.

He had no people — there was nobody to be glad ! Once
there had been a sweet woman who would have been
proud of him — ^but she had gone long since.

It was a farce that he should be recommended for
the V.C.

He thought that he began to say so, but in reality
his lips did not move, and the young doctor turned away
to the next bed.

The V.C. — it hammered against his brain dully, this
little wonderful thought.

Sonia would be pleased. She had always wanted him
to do great and wonderful things. She would be pleased.
He could see the proud happy flash of her eyes — feel
the loving clasp of her arms about his neck. The
thought snapped; ugly truth reared its head and stared
into his eyes.

"Sonia is married — she is married to the man who
was once your best friend."

How it hurt! — the recurring knowledge nearly killed
a man with pain.

So now there was nobody to be proud of him ; nobody
who would even trouble to come as far as the station to
meet him when he went back home — if ever he did —
and grip him by the hand and say, "Well done !"

Even the other fellows who had belonged to the same
clubs and helped him spend his money would have for-

294 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

gotten him by this time. Even Old Jardine . . . Old
Jardine! The memory of the quaint, lovable old
man, who had been so good a friend to him, brought
something like tears to Richard Chatterton's eyes.

He would give a great deal now to see old Jardine;
a great deal to feel the clasp of his hand and hear the
brusque voice that had such a wealth of kindliness be-
hind it.

Old Jardine. . . . He tried to recall the red, fierce
face and merry, twinkling eyes.

Ah, yes ! now he had it perfectly ! Now he could see
even the double chin and fringe of gray hair which he
rumpled whenever anything perturbed him. Surely he
had but to extend his hand to feel the old fellow's warm
clasp. Surely — unconsciously he moved his thin fingers
a little on the coverlet, and the next moment they were
taken and held in a warm, firm grasp and a voice, broken
with emotion, said:

"My dear boy — ^my dear, dear boy . . ." and by some
wonderful miracle the dream had become reality, and
Old Jardine stood there by the bed.

CHAPTER XXIII

JUST at first Chatterton could not believe that this,
too, was not all a part of those waking dreams in
which he had lived for so long; just at first he
could not realize that Old Jardine's substantial person
would not melt away into blank forgetf ulness as all those
other figures had done.

But Old Jardine laughed — ^and a ghost does not laugh !

It was a shaky laugh, certainly, and there was a sus-
picious mist in the dear old fellow's eyes, but it con-
vinced Richard of his undoubted reality, and dragged
a gasping sigh of relief to his white lips.

"Gad ! If you knew what it feels like to see a friend !"

With a half-ashamed hesitancy he released his fingers,
and touched the old man's rough coat sleeves ; he laughed
feebly.

"You are real! . . . not another dream . , . don't
go. . , .

"A dream ! I like that ! Damned substantial dream —
eh? Bless your soul, I'm not going. I've had the very
deuce of a job to get here. You never saw such a busi-
ness, Dick ! Passports, and affidavits, and twaddle." He
chuckled, but sobered again immediately. He looked
down at Chatterton, and his eyes grew fierce.

So this was the kind of wreck war made of men, was
it? Just at the very first glance he had not recog-
nized Chatterton; he had been lying with closed eyes,
and the sunken face and bandaged forehead had changed
him utterly.

295

296 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

It was not so bad now his eyes were open, and yet . . .
Old Jardine wondered if perhaps a woman who loved
him might not nearly break her heart were she to see
him now — like this!

He had heard a little of Chatterton's wounds from
the nurse who had brought him to the bedside, and even
she had spoken as if it were a miracle that he were
alive at all, even she had shaken her head rather sadly
when old Jardine had asked with brusque anxiety:

"But he's all right now? He'll pull through now?"

"The surgeon doesn't say . . . but, of course, there
is hope."

"So you've been as bad as they make 'em — eh?" he
asked cheerily as he sat down very gingerly on the side
of the narrow bed. "Well, young man, you gave us
all a nasty turn — who's business is it to look after the
casualty list— eh? . . . who's to blame for having put
fou down dead, instead of wounded?"

"Was I ?" Chatterton's sunken eyes flashed into faint
interest and amusement. "That sort of mistake often
happens."

It was wonderful how much better he felt already;
this unexpected visit had acted on his worn system very
much as a breath of cold air does on the face of a faint-
ing person ; the woolly feeling about his brain had cleared
too — ^he was beginning to realize that there were edges
to life after all, instead of merely smudges as he had
grown to believe.

The sudden excitement had brought a flush to his face ;
to old Jardine's ignorance it was a good sign, but a
nurse passing and glancing towards him knew better.
She spoke to old Jardine.

"You mustn't excite him. I can only allow you
another five minutes."

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 297

Chatterton began to feel panicky; he had so much to
say and so much to hean His eyes pleaded.

"You're not going? Oh, for God's sake, don't go!"

Old Jardine rose to the occasion like a Briton. "My
boy, if they want me to leave French soil they'll have
to carry me. I'm coming back again this evening and
again to-morrow — and the day after, and every day after
that till you're well enough to come back to London
with me."

He hesitated.

"Sonia!" The word seemed driven to Chatterton's
lips. Old Jardine smiled, well pleased.

"She is as proud of you as — well, as I am — ^and that's
saying a good deal."

Chatterton closed his eyes. There was a little pathetic
line about his mouth. Old Jardine rattled on, uncon-
scious of the burning question the other longed to ask,
but dared not.

And then the nurse came back. She glanced at
Chatterton, lying with closed eyes, and then at Old Jar-
dine.

"I am afraid you must go now," she said.

Old Jardine rose at once; he took Richard's hand.

"I'm coming back to-night," he said impressively.
"I'm not a dream, remember ! — and you'll see a lot more
of me than you want to before you're rid of me."

He was not readmitted to the hospital that night,
but the next morning they told him he might see Chat-
terton for a few minutes.

When he entered the ward he saw that Chatterton was
lying staring towards the door — a little wave of color
ran into his white face when he saw Old Jardine.

"I thought you were coming back last night," he said
anxiously.

((1

298 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

Old Jardine looked rueful.

"They wouldn't let me. I tried all I knew . . • wdl^
and how are you to-day?"

"Getting on famously. I shall soon be home at this
rate."

There was something of his old self in the words.

But when old Jardine rose — ^well, there was one
question that scorched Chatterton's lips ; one question to
which he must hear the answer now, for fear that he
might be left to endure yet another night of agonized,
vivid thought ; and as the old man bent to shake his hand,
Qiatterton asked it with stiflf lips:

'Did you — ^were you ... at the — ^the wedding?"

Wedding!" There was a moment of blankness.
"Wedding! What wedding, Dick — ^whose wedding?"

A moment since he would have said that it would
have been impossible for Chatterton's face to have got
whiter — but now . . .

"Montague's . . . he . . . Sonia . . ."

Old Jardine caught back an oath; he grew crimson
in the face.

Had the poor lad been suffering under this delusion ? —
what a muddle-headed chump he was not to have guessed.

He took Chatterton's hand in his big grasp.

"They're not married, Dick . . . it's all off . . .
there has been no wedding . . . Sonia broke off the en-
gagement herself."

He never forgot the look of dazed, incredulous hap-
piness that flashed across Chatterton's face.

"Not married! Not oh, I say, you're not rotting,

are you? It's not just to please a sick man?" His
voice was all broken up and shaken. Old Jardine took
his hand.

"It's the truth, Dick, if I never speak again. Soma

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 299

is no more married than you are. She oh, all right,

madam, all right ; I 'm coming immediately !" This last
to the nurse, who had returned to the attack and was
ordering him forcibly away. He looked again towards
Richard — Richard, a little pale with emotion still, but
smiling, the sort of smile, as old Jardine afterwards
tuld Lady Merriam, that made him feel positively young
again.

"Ill tell you all the rest this evening!" he called back
across the ward as he was being edged to the door.
"I'll tell you all! Bless my soul, madam, why may
I not speak to my friend?"

The nurse suppressed a smile; it was impossible to
be angry for long with old Jardine.

"It's against the rules to make a noise," she said,
as gravely as she could. "Some of the metf here are
very ill indeed."

Old Jardine looked abashed. "Bless my soul, I'd
forgotten! Selfish of me — ^most unpardonable of mel
I apologize — I sincerely apologize."

He went the remainder of the way on exaggerated
tiptoe, but he turned before dosing the door behind him
and waved a last farewell to Chatterton.

The man in the bed next to him chuckled a little when
the old fellow disappeared.

"Jolly old buffer that," he said.
"The best in the world," answered Chatterton.
He could not realize yet that those last few words
were real; that old Jardine had not invented them, or
qualified the truth in order to please him; his heart
seemed to be quivering between hope and fear.

The hours dragged interminably till the evening, when
Old Jardine had promised to come again. Chatterton had
worked himself into a perfect fever of anxiety by the

300 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

time the old man's portly figure engineered its way
through the narrow lines of beds.

"I thought you were never awning." In spite of him*
self he had to say it; he followed the words with a
little apologetic laugh, "I dare say you think I'm an
exacting sort of creature."

Old Jardine shook his head.

"I think you're a wonderful lot — ^all of you. . . ."
He included the whole ward in the wide sweep of his
fat hand. ''Wonderful!" he went on. beaming at the
man in the next bed.

"I've had some papers and cigarettes and things sent
in for you," he went on, dropping his voice. "I don't
know if it's allowed, but . . . She's a bit of a tartar,
isn't she ?" he asked, with a twinkle, indicating the nurse
who was bending over a bed at the other end of the

room.

She's been very good to me," said Chatterton. "The
nurses are worked to death here, you know."

"By the way," said old Jardine suddenly. "Talking
of nurses — a little friend of yours was inquiring after
you the night before I left London. Ah! I see you
know who 1 mean!" he added, laughing, as Chatterton
colored.

"Nurse Anderson, I suppose. I hope she is well."
The words were almost absurdly formal. Chatterton
was beginning to remember that he had been very
friendly with this girl^ who had shown him such s)mi-
pathy when he was so down on his luck; but now, in
the light of Old Jardine's great news of the morning,
it all seemed like some fevered dream to look back on
those last days in London, during which time he had
stalked its streets and parks, nearly mad with the gnaw*
ing unhappiness that would not let him rest.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 301

"She called at my rooms/' old Jardine said "She
was very excited about you and the V.C, of course.
When I told her I wsis coming over here she sent dozens
of messages — ^but, upon my word, I believe I've for-
gotten 'em all."

"They wouldn't be anjrthing important," said Chatter-
ton restlessly. He did not want to hear about Nurse
Anderson.

"Sonia and she got on quite well together," said old
Jardine thoughtlessly. "I introduced them — it was one
morning in the park, I ^what did you say?"

"Oh, nothing . . . nothing . . . So — so Sonia knows
her, does she?"

"Yes — Nurse Anderson went to tea at the hotel . . ."
He paused, and for the first time a trace of anxiety
crept into his eyes. "I hope you don't mind, my boy?
I hope I didn't do wrong."

"Why should I mind? There is nothing to mind."
But he felt a little unhappy as he recalled the look he
had once surprised in the eyes of little Nurse Anderson ;
when he remembered the way she had cried that night
at Waterloo. A sudden memory returned.

He looked up at Old Jardine, flushing a little.

"That night — when we left England . . . were you
at Waterloo ? Some chap in our company told me there
had been someone asking for me at the station. From
the description I thought perhaps . . ."

It was I right enough," came the irascible answer.
A pretty dance I had to find you. Disgraceful the
way that station is managed. There was I, dancing
about like a marionette for an hour or more, trying to
find you."

If only I had known . . ."

Ah! Um!" The old man looked down at him rue-

302 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

fully. Yes, if only you had known, Dick" — ^then — ^'*Sonia
was there with me," he added.

For a moment Chatterton did not speak. So it had
been true, after all, and she had wanted to see him.

"She insisted on coming at the last moment," Old Jar-
dine went on. "I tried to dissuade her ; I had some sort
of idea that we should miss you. Poor child! she was
terribly upset. You see, Dick — ^you see, she saw yoti —
she saw you all the time and . . ."

Qiatterton tried to raise himself, but fell back.

"She saw me . . . Sonia . . .1"

"Yes — ^but there, we won't talk about it now; it's
over and done with, and the sooner you get well and
come back to settle your own affairs, young man, the
better I shall be pleased. There! now I've upset jroul
I*m such an old blunderer. . . ."

But Chatterton shook his head.

"Go on — ^I want to hear — and I 'm quite all right . . ."

Old Jardine rubbed his chin.

"Well, there isn't a great deal to tell. She was
ill after we went to Waterloo that night — she had a sort
of breakdown; nothing very serious — but she was laid
up for a few days. Then Montague pressed for an
early wedding, and • . . well, she gave in. Then we
heard that you'd been finished, and then . . . which
reminds me that I don't know whether she has heard
the truth about that yet or not."

"Oh, I say!"

"Well, you see, she ran away the v^;ry night that I
heard the news myself, and so . . ."

"Ran away !"

"Yes. Bless my soul ! I'm afraid I'm telling all this
very badly. You'd, better let me off, Dick — ^wait tiM
you get better. . . .'

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 303

"No, no, I must hear. I shall never rest if I don't
know the whole truth. You say Sonia ran away?"

"Yes. She left a note for Lady Merriam. Fine
woman that! Splendid! There was nothing much in
it beyond the fact that she said she had discovered she
couldn't go on with the wedding, and thought it the
best way to avoid explanations."

"And where has she gone?"

"Ah! there you have me! We don't know, and she
didn't say. But she'll be all right, my boy, don't you
worry. Sonia. knows how to look after herself."

Qiatterton stifled an oath. . , .

"In London! Alone I Sonia! If I were only
well "

There was a dull flush in his face — ^his eyes looked
feverish. Old Jardine felt alarmed.

"Look here, my boy, if you 're going to get excited,
I shall get up and walk straight out of the place and
take the first boat back to England. Sonia is all
right — I'm sure enough of that; and when she knows
that you're alive . . ." He broke oflf with a meaning
nod.

Qiatterton set his mouth.

The old depression was settling on him again. After
all, if Sonia did not know that he were alive, how could
it be for his sake that she had broken off her engage-
ment with Montague ? He closed her eyes and lay silent.

Old Jardine let him alone. He turned round a little
and began talking to the lad in the next bed, who had
lost his arm. He devoted himself to him till the nurse
came along again with a reminder that time was up.
Qiatterton, hearing her, opened his eyes quickly enough.

'You're not going?"

1 am — I've had my marching orders." There was

304 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

a little shortness in the old man's voice. Qiatterton
stretched a hand to him apologetically.

"I'm sorry I've been such a surly beggar, but if
you only knew!"

"My dear boy, I do know . . /'

"And Sonia ... do you think — do you think she "

Old Jardine laughed.

"I 'm not giving away any secrets of State. Get well,
and ask her yourself."

And the next moment he was gone.

He was wondering how to spend the rest of the even-
ing, when the girl from the desk in the hotel hall came
towards him down the room; she held a telegram in
her hand, which she laid beside his plate.

The message was short but imperative:

"Come back at once — Merriam."

Old Jardine stared at the telegram blankly.

There was no mistaking the peremptory command as
being Lady Merriam's; without the attached name he
would have known the message to be hers.

Something disastrous must have happened.

Something had happened — ^but what? And then in a
flash he knew! Sonia! Something had happened to
her. Good heavens! after all these weeks of scheming
and uncertainty was everything to be spoilt at the
eleventh hour?

He never slept a wink all night. He was up and
downstairs demanding breakfast at an absurdly early
hour.

He had made elaborate calculations, and reckoned that
with any degree of luck he could be in London that
night.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 305

But it was not until early the following morning that
Old Jardine took a taxicab down the Strand to Lady Mer-
riam, unshaven, and very tired and cross.

He had sent a wire from Dover, and her ladyship was
ready waiting for him.

"I thought you were never coming," she said hyster-
ically, without any attempt at a greeting. "Practically
two whole days IVe been pacing up and down here
wearing myself to a shadow."

"I came as soon as I could. And now I am here, in
Heaven's name what is the matter?"

"It's Sonia, of course!" For once her ladyship went
straight to the point. "I knew what would happen.
"Why don't you say something? suggest something. . . .?"

Old Jardine interrupted irascibly.

"But what has happened? Bless the woman, how
can I suggest an)rthing when I 'm left entirely in the
dark?"

Lady Merriam began to cry softly. . . .

"It's Montague — ^he's the devil incarnate, that man."

Old Jardine looked fierce.

"Never mind him ! I'll break his head for him later,
or Dick Chatterton will " he said savagely.

Lady Merriam mopped her eyes.

"But you can't," she walled. "You can't — he and Sonia
are married!"

There was a tragic moment of silence; then

"Rot!" said old Jardine vigorously. "Rot!" he re-
peated more loudly as if trying to convince himself.
"Who told you this cock-and-bull story, I should like
to know? I refuse to believe it."

Lady Merriam sobbed on drearily.

"It's true! that young Courtenay boy ran across
them together the day after she left this hotel — ^they were

3o6 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

having lunch in some restaurant, and Montague said thej
were married!"

"That's nothing 1 Montague would say anything —
except his prayers."

"But, my good man, he said it in front of Sonia;
she heard him say it, and she took no notice. I
knew something would happen — I dreamt more than a
week ago that Sonia was married to that man."

"Dreams are all rot I only children and weak-minded
people believe in dreams," Old Jardine declared. "But
if this is true about Sonia, it will finish Chatterton ; he's
full of hope now. Damn it all, it's a confoundedly
cruel business. . . ."

Lady Merriam rounded on him —

"You ought not to have gone to France ; I knew you'd
go and tell him a lot of things that only exist in your
imagination; it's entirely your fault if you've led him
to believe that things are coming right with Sonia again."

Old Jardine got very red in the face ; he looked round
for his hat; he was tired and cross, and longing for a
shave.

"I will wish you good morning," he said primly.

The door closed on his indignant figure.

Lady Merriam laughed softly.

Like most women, she loved a little tiff with the man
she thought most of in all the world. She only hoped
she had not too seriously offended him.

When Jardine had bathed and shaved, he went off
to lunch at the club; he wanted to know if an3rthing of
this supposed marriage was known there. Apparently
a great deal of it was known.

Old Jardine felt horribly; he knew what it meant
when a club got hold of a story.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 307

One man — a kindly, but gossip-loving father of three
plain daughters with whom nobody would ever have
dreamed of nmning away — spoke about it straight out
to old Jardine.

"Gone oif with Montague, eh? — Chatterton's girl at
one time, wasn't she? Rum affair altogether. . . ."

Old Jardine choked and spluttered over his whisky
before he answered.

"Montague's a confounded blackguard, sir — ^a con-
founded blackguard! And one day I shall make it my
business to tell him so."

He rose and stalked out of the room.

If only he had been in a position to deny the story!
But he had no definite confirmation either way.

He went home and, sitting down, squared his shoulders
to write to Chatterton. But he could get no farther
than the "Dear Dick."

He got up and went to the window. A taxicab had
drawn up at the curb. A woman got out and came up
the steps.

Old Jardine recognized her instantly as Lady Mer-
riam's maid. He hurried himself to the door to meet her.
Do you want me?" he asked quickly.

"Yes, sir — a letter — ^her ladyship told me to give it
to yoa myself — immediately."

Old Jardine stepped back into the lighted hall and
broke the seal.

"Sonia has come back — she is here with me — ^it's not
true that she is married, thank God!"

Old Jardine passed a hand over his eyes; they had
grown suddenly misty. It was not of Sonia that he
was thinking at that moment, but of a man lying in a
crowded hospital "somewhere in France" ; a man whose

3o8 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

eyes were turned to England and the woman he loved,
and old Jardine's voice was a little broken with emotion
as he echoed the last words of Lady Merriam's scribbled
note— "thank GodT

! «

CHAPTER XXIV

IADY MERRIAM had been indulging in her after-
noon's siesta when Sonia walked into her room;
■^ she opened her eyes a little dreamily at the soft
sound of the opening door, and saw the girl standing
at her bedside.

For a moment she lay quite still, spellbound — ^then she
sprang up with a hysterical shriek. . . .

"Sonia!" she drew Soma's face down to her own.

"My dear child! what has happened? — ^has he been a
brute to you already? — if he has dared . . ."

Sonia drew away with a little shivering laugh; she
looked white and ill, Lady Merriam thought compas-
sionately; the soft curves of her face seemed to have
sharpened and aged in some indefinable way.

She sat down in the chair Lady Merriam dragged for-
ward; for a moment she did not speak, then

Have you seen — Francis ?" She spoke his name with
an effort.

"My dear, I haven't seen him. But when I do . . ."
Her voice rose threateningly, but dropped again almost
at once. "Sonia, dear child, why did you marry
him?"

A little flush tinged the girl's pale face. She drew
back.

"Marry him !" she echoed shrilly. "I haven't married
him. . . ."

"Merciful heavens!" Lady Merriam looked as if

309

310 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

someone had struck her. "But he's told everybody that
you have. He's been talking about you everywhere as
his wife ! Oh, for pity's sake, explain."

Sonia took off her hat and threw it aside. She ran
her fingers wearily through the masses of soft hair.
Lady Merriam noticed that she wore no rings.

"He said he would tell everyone that; he said that he
would make it impossible for me to contradict it; he
thought he would frighten me into marrying him."
She set her teeth hard. "As if I care what he says — ^
as if it mattered . . ." But there was a little nervous
break in her voice.

"I ran into him the night I left here/' she went on
presently with an effort to steady her voice. "At least/*
— ^she smiled tremulously — ^"he nearly ran over me — ^he
was in his car. ... I think I was mad then . . . noth-
ing seemed to matter . . ." She bit her lip hard, with
a sudden throbbing memory of her encounter with Nurse
Anderson. "He tried to be kind, I think, but ... oh,
I can hardly remember. He said we would get married,
and that he would take care of me. . . ." She passed
her hand wearily over her eyes. "I can't remember
properly — it all seems so like a dream. I went to
a hotel for the night, and in the morning he came to

fetch me ; he had got a special license, and he said '*

She broke off distressfully. "Oh, I can't remember! I
wish I could — ^but it all seems to have gone . . . gone.
He said I should have to marry him — I l^iow he
said that He told me that everyone was talking about
me — that it would be impossible for me to go back
amongst the people I knew unless I was his wife. He
said he had told everybody that I had run away to marry
him . . ." She broke off, hiding her face.

Lady Merriam sat in stony silence; her mind was in

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 311

a perfect panic. Here was a nice morsel of scandal for
that red-haired Varrick woman; here was the making
of a detestable story for her to carry round with her
in her venomous train !

With an effort she composed herself; she laid a hand
on Sonia's lap.

"Yes, dear; go on — tell me everything."

"I was so sick of everything. I know it isn't any
excuse, but ... I began to think it would be so much
easier to give in. I believe, in his way, Francis does
really care for me, and . . . and . • .** Her voice trailed
away desolately.

"He didn't tell you that that was a false report about
Richard Chatterton, I suppose?" her ladyship asked
acidly. "He wouldn't be man enough to tell you that."

There was a long silence; Sonia sat as if turned to
stone; her face was marble white; there was a shocked
look of disbelief in her eyes. "Richard 1 . . . not
dead . . . not . . ."

Lady Merriam was frightened ; she took the girl's cold
hands in hers.

Forgive me, my dear; I ought not to have told you
so bltmtly ; but it's quite true ! We knew the night you
ran away! Jardine has been over to France and seen
Richard himself, so we know there can be no mistake
this time.'

The icy feeling was melting from Sonia's heart, but as
yet she was conscious of no gladness; all her thoughts
seemed centered on Nurse Anderson, and the ring she
wore.

Chatterton was alive ! and coming home some day I
For what? — for whom? — not for her . . . never for
her. . . . His first smile, as his last had been, would
be given to this other girl.

312 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

She roused herself with a great effort.

"I am glad," she said, with white lips. "I am very
glad; but — ^but it couldn't make any difference. Oh,
it couldn't make any difference at all," she added bitterly.

There was another silence, k)nger this time. Presently
Sonia raised her eyes.

"So I told Francis I would marry him; I said I would
give in."

The words seemed forced from her ; she stared straight
ahead into the dying fire.

"We went to some place on the London Road for
lunch. I don't remember an)rthing very clearly — I
think I was half-mad. Francis told me that Bertie
Courtenay saw us there together, and that he had told
him we were married Even that didn't seem to
matter — I was past caring until ... till .. . some man
he knew came into the room where we were having
lunch; I did not know him — ^but . . . but . . . Francis
introduced me as his wife! That seemed to wake me
up — ^to make me realize what I was doing. He went
out to get the car ready again, and I got away. ... I
didn't know that part of the country at all, and I was
terrified that he would find me."

Lady Merriam broke in. "You're tired, and upset;
in the morning you'll see things very differently. What
harm can he do you, I should like to know? I shall
send my solicitor to see him. The man's a snake in
the grass." But in spite of her confident words,
her heart failed her as she thought of the red-haired
Varrick woman, and the many people who doubtless had
already heard everything that she had to tell on the
subject.

"Don't worry," she counseled. "I'll look after you.
There's a great deal of happiness in store for you yet,

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 313

my dear child/' She patted the girl's hand. "I told
you that Jardine has been out to France ? Ah, I thought
that would wake you up." She smiled happily. "Yes,
he has; and he saw Richard and ..." Sonia dragged
her hand away.

"Oh, please, I don't want to hear."

Lady Merriam said : "StuflF and nonsense I Then you've
just got to hear • . ." But something in the girl's
face made her change her mind, and she bent over and
kissed her instead.

**. . . But I know she hasn't told me the whole story."
So she wrote to old Jardine late that night.

"And I am sure that there is a great deal more to
tell. It nearly drives me silly when I think of the
scandal there will be. Ifs not that I'm afraid of
Montague — ^if I were a man I'd horsewhip him — ^but
there is no doubt he can do a tremendous amount of
harm if he really intends to.

"If only Richard Chatterton were well and here on
the spot, that might be the solution of all our difficulties.
But Sonia says he doesn't want to hear anything. But
I am more thankful than I can say to have got her back
safely. Between us we ought to be able to stop people
talking."

But old Jardine was not so sure. He knew that to
contradict a thing too strenuously often added convic-
tion to the minds of those people who had already heard
it. But he did his best in a quiet way, pooh-poohing the
story whenever it was mentioned to him, which was very
frequently.

"Married! Miss Markham! My dear fellow, you
must have dreamt it She broke off her engagement
long ago. Who in the world told you such a story?
You've had your leg badly pulled, my son!"

One man protested vigorously.

"Montague told me himself ; and, hang it all, the man
must know if he's married or not • • . !"

314 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

Old Jardine chuckled, though his heart beat rather
anxiously.

"Montague was never quite— er — ^well — ^you know
yourself that truth was never his strong point," he sub-
mitted deprecatingly. "Miss Markham is down at Bur-
vale, and has been there for some days."

But he knew he had not succeeded in forcing convic-
tion, a shrug of the shoulders being the only reply he
got, and the other man wandered away to confide to
somebody else that there "is something in that Montague
story, after all ; Old Jardine knows more than he mean:
to admit."

But Old Jardine, meanwhile, had written a long letter
to Richard Chatterton, and told him that the sooner he
got well and came home the better.

Lady Merriam took Sonia to Burvale the day after
her return to the hotel.

"We both want a good rest," she declared mag-
nanimously, even while she sighed despondently as she
thought of the lanes and meadows that would bound her
horizon on every side.

"And it's just as well to keep Sonia out of London
for a time," she added confidentially to old Jardine. "One
never knows when that Montague man will turn up
again with his tricks."

But Montague could not be heard pf anjrwhere. A
whole sheaf of letters awaited him at the club and at
his own rooms. There were many and varied rumors
about him. Some said he had gone to America, some
said that he had offered his famous yellow cars to the
Government and was doing transport work with them
himself in France.

Lady Merriam sniffed when she heard it.

"He's far more likely to be doing spy work on the

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 315

cast coast," she declared vehemently. "I shouldn't be
at all surprised if it was he who drove the car that
guided the Zeppelins when they came over."

"But anyway," old Jardine said quietly, "whatever
happens — I mean if Dick and Sonia ever make it up„
Dick will have to be told about that little jaunt with
Montague. Oh, I know it was perfectly harmless, my
dear," as Lady Merriam rounded angrily on him, "but
it's as well to be on the safe side. Forewarned is fore-
armed, and there's not much doubt that Montague will
have his revenge if Sonia marries Richard Chatterton.'*

"You're talking like a penny dreadful," declared her
ladyship. "Things like that don't happen in real life
and amongst sane people."

Old Jardine knew better. He knew that Montague
had a revengeful nature. He knew, too, that he had
really been very hard hit

But the days slipped by, and nothing was heard of
him, and even the red-haired Varrick woman found it
beyond her to keep a scandal afloat single-handed.

And the letters from France were getting more irri-
table and more alive, and so altogether old Jardine felt
decidedly more cheerful when he arrived for his wcekr
end at Burvale.

Sonia met him at the station.

"It's just like old times," the old man said happily
as he climbed into the little car beside her.

There was no mention made of Chatterton, though to
old Jardine every nook and comer of the house seemed
to speak of him.

"Does she never mention Dick at all?" he asked Lady
Merriam anxiously.

"Never! And I never speak of him, of course."

Old Jardine rubbed his chin.

3i6 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"Well, well, we must be patient," he said, with a sigh.
"We must wait till Dick comes home."

And one morning a letter forwarded from London
lay beside his plate that brought a pleased smile to his
kindly face, and made him glance across at Lady Mer-
nam with a twinkle.

He read it and pocketed it without a word, but after
breakfast he followed Lady Merriam into the garden.
I have some news for you," he said mysteriously.
You'll never guess what it is." Lady Merriam laughed.
You ridiculous old man! I knew by your face at
breakfast time. Richard Chatterton is coming home, of

course."

Old Jardine looked rather foolish; presently he
laughed.

"I never could keep a secret from you, I know," he
admitted. "You're a wonderful woman." He looked
down at her with affectionate pride. "And now the
question is : How are we going to let Sonia meet Richard
without either of them knowing it?"

Lady Merriam spread her hands with a sort of long-
suffering ain

"My good man,*' she said tolerantly, "if you can't
realize that it's high time you retired and left things to
manage themselves, I give you up! If Sonia has the
slightest idea that she's being 'managed' she'll fly off
at a tangent ; and that, I presume, is the very last thing
you want to bring about. What does he say? And how
is it that he has managed to get well so soon?"

"He isn't well — ^he won't be well for months; but he
had made up his mind to come home, and I dare say
they're glad enough to be rid of him — ^there are plenty
more poor fellows waiting for his bed, I've no doubt. He

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 317

says he hopes to be in London during the next few days,

and will write again.

'Then, like a sensible man, say nothing about him,
Sonia is afraid of you."

"Afraid of me, when I'd do anything in the world
for her!" Old Jardine was distressed.

Lady Merriam laid a hand lightly on his arm.

"Of course you would — ^and she knows it, and that's
what she's afraid of. You don't understand, because
you're only a man; but leave her alone."

"I suppose you're right," he admitted reluctantly. He
was absurdly disappointed; he had rather fancied him-
self stage-managing a meeting between these two young
people.

"I hope Sonia didn't notice anything at breakfast time,'*
he said anxiously.

"Don't you worry," Lady Merriam counseled. "You've
done your best; let Providence or some other unknown
quantity have a go."

She left old Jardine to his paper; but for once in
his life the war news held no interest for him. After
a moment he discarded the paper and went down inta
the village.

He was quite well known amongst the people there.
Lately he had amused himself by talking about Richard
to those who had known Burvale when it belonged to
the Chattertons. He was never tired of singing his
praises; he had told the story dozens of times — more
or less embellished — of how he won the Victoria Cross.

He walked into the little post office humming a snatch
of a martial song under his breath; the postmistress
looked up smiling as he entered.

"You look very pleased this morning, Mr. Jardine,'*
she said.

3i8 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

'Tleasedl And so I am pleased, madam! So would
you be pleased if you were me. Mr. Chatterton is
coming home."

The woman was delighted; she was middle-aged and
conservative; she had never taken kindly to the change
of masters at Burvale. She entered heart and soul into
Old Jardine's enthusiasm; she quite agreed that there
must be a home-coming and banners.

In the excitement of it all Jardine forgot to tell the
postmistress that the secret was confidential. Before he
had been gone an hour the news was all over the village.

Mr. Chatterton was coming home.

The news reached Sonia in the afternoon. The vicar's
yovmgest daughter, who had discarded young Courtenay
for a man in the Naval Brigade, stopped her in the village
and asked if it were true.

"Everyone is talking about it," she said, rather un-
comfortably, when she saw the sudden flush that colored
Sonia's face. "I thought you would be sure to know."

"I don't. I haven't heard anything about it."

But in her heart Sonia knew it was true, and the
knowledge filled her with panic.

She told herself that she never wished to see him
again ; he was nothing to her ; there was another woman
who had the right to be glad — ^a woman who wore his
ring.

When she got back to Burvale she went into the
library where Old Jardine was writing letters. She saw
that he threw some blotting paper guiltily over the sheet
before him as she entered. He looked up with the rather
overdone smile of a man who is caught.

"Well, my dear?"

Sonia closed the door and came forward.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 319

"They are saying down the village that . . . that Mr.
Chatterton is coming home; is it true?"

Old Jardine said, "God bless my soul !" He got very
red in the face.

"Well — I believe there has been some rumor," he ad-
mitted clumsily, "Of course, he '11 have to come home
some time."

It was a lame admission.

Sonia stood looking into the garden; there was some-
thing hard and defiant in the curves of her face.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked with sudden
anger. "Why will you persist in treating me as if I
should drop dead at the very sound of his name?"

Her voice trailed away. She swung round abruptly,
trying to laugh.

"It's all so absurd," she said harshly. "It cannot
affect me one way or the other if he comes home. I
am very glad he is well enough to be able to come. . . .'*

"God bless my soul !" said old Jardine helplessly.

He was utterly at a loss; he looked at Soma's un-
yielding face and his heart sank.

He did not sufficiently understand women to know
that they will forgive a man anything except another
woman; he never dreamt that at that moment Sonia
remembered nothing but that ring on Nurse Anderson's
hand. He sat staring at her with ridiculous disappoint-
ment in his face.

He began a stammered apology.
• "I never thought — ^I never imagined . . ."

Sonia interrupted — ^her voice was almost natural again.

"Never mind." She laid a hand on his agitated
shoulder. "It really doesn't matter a little bit," she added
deliberately.

"God bless my soul!" said old Jardine again.

320 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

He sat staring after her as she left the room ; he felt
as if the worid had crumbled about his ears, leaving him
sitting amongst its ruins.
Sonia seemed utterly changed from that day.

"She's never still — she's just wearing me out," Lady
Merriam complained plaintively. "She must always be
racing off somewhere. To-morrow she expects me to
dash off to London with her just for the day to some
matinee for the Russians or something. For the day,
mind you ! She says she must come back here to-morrow
night; for heaven's sake, George, can't you speak to her?
She's wearing me to a shadow."

Old Jardine laughed ruefully. Manlike, he was de-
ceived by Sonia; he never realized that her gayety was
forced.

Lady Merriam went on: "She'll be the death of me;
I'm sure I've lost pounds in weight this week."

But she cheered up a little when the early morning
train puffed into Euston ; she sniffed the smoky air with
enjo)anent.

"Dear London," she said sentimentally.

Old Jardine saw them into a taxi and went off to
his club; he knew they were going to wander in and
out of shops, he declared, and it was not in his line.

He arranged to meet them again for lunch.

He had not heard from Chatterton for a week; he
was bitterly disappointed to find that there was no letter
waiting him.

He wished after all that he had gone with Lady Mer-
riam and Sonia. In the hall he met an acquaintance.

"Hullo! Thought you were out of town."

Old Jardine grunted.

"So I was — only ran up for the day." A sudden

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 321

idea struck him. "Have you seen Montague lately?"
he asked, with overdone indifference.

"No — not for some time. I say, what was the truth
of that story of Montague and Miss Markham? One
hears so many different versions. Are they married
or not?"

Old Jardine looked fierce.

"They are not, sir/' he snapped. "And if I can find
out who is responsible for circulating such a pack of lies
there'll be trouble. Miss Markham is neither married
nor engaged." He turned his back and stalked off.

The other man looked after him and smiled. He
knew Old Jardine very well, and was not in the least
upset by his snappiness.

Old Jardine went out into the street again; he fdt
ruffled and agitated.

He had hoped that the gossip about Sonia was dead.
Lady Merriam had been so sure that it would die out
as a nine-days' wonder.

If he could only meet that scamp Montague I Where
the dickens could the man have hidden himself?

He looked at his watch — ^still a couple of hours before
he was due for lunch ; London was a surprisingly lonely
place when one did not feel in the right mood for it.

He found himself staring into a jeweler's window;
a tray of diamond rings reminded him of Lady Merriam ;
she loved diamonds. He wondered if perhaps he might
buy her a half-hoop ; after all, they had got to be engaged
some day. He squared his shoulders and entered the
shop.

A man stood at the counter ; a tall man, immaculately
dressed.

Old Jardine glanced at him casually.

322 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

The man turned: there was a moment's silence, then
he held out his hand.

"How d'ye do?" It was Montague.

It was too late when he recognized the meaning of the
fierceness in Jardine's eyes; the old man had backed
away a step with his hands behind him.

"I must decline the honor of your acquaintance, sir,**
he said.

He spoke intentionally loud; his voice could have been
heard distinctly all over the shop; the assistants at the
counter looked up with startled interest.

Montague went as white as death ; his hands fell nerve-
lessly to his side, but he managed to shrug his shoulders
with well-assumed indifference.

"If that is the attitude you intend to take — ^we don't
need to brawl in a shop."

Old Jardine was between him and the door; the old
man made no attempt to move.

He was thoroughly enjoying himself ; he was wonder-
ing what the damage would be were he to send Montague
hurtling backwards into one of the glass stands behind
him.

"That is most decidedly the attitude," he said with
evident relish. "I do not care to count a cad and a
har amongst my acquaintances."

He was scarlet in the face now with excitement.

The manager of the shop had come forward ; he looked
decidedly anxious; Montague was a good customer of
his, and yet — comparing the faces of the two men he
could not doubt for an instant who was in the wrong.

He ventured a protest; there were ladies in the shop
— a disturbance would be most unpleasant. Montague
edged nearer to the door.

"I cannot answer your challenge here and now/* he

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 323

said with an attempt at dignity. "You shall hear from
my solicitor."

"And you" — shouted old Jardine — "shall hear from
mine. I can prove a deliberate case of malicious libel
against you ; you shall answer my 'challenge/ as you call
it, in court."

Montague tried to laugh.

"You're talking nonsense. I don't know what you're
driving at. You can't touch me."

"No, but the clubs can, by God!" Old Jardine took
a furious step forward; it was only with the greatest
effort that he kept himself from physical violence. The
manager of the shop caught his arm agitatedly.

"I must beg of you, sir . . ."

Old Jardine rounded on him like an infuriated bull.

"Beg of me! beg of me! It's a damned nice thing
if I can't tell a cad and a liar what I think of him,
I tell you, sir!" he raved on.

In the confusion Montague escaped; he had hailed a
taxi and driven away before Old Jardine had finished
telling the manager what he thought of him. Jardine
was shaking with excitement ; he kept muttering to him-
self furiously.

"Scamp! blackguard! and to think I once called him
my friend ! Good God ! an infernal scoundrel like that I"

He forgot all about Lady Merriam's diamond ring;
he had to fortify himself with a couple of brandies before
he dared keep his appointment with her.

She was alone when he met her; he asked anxiously
for Sonia.

"She's only gone across the road for some gloves.
Goodness, George! What have you been doing? Your
lace is the color of a beetroot."

"And so would yours be, madam," he retorted huffily.

324 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"if you'd been doing what I have. I went into a shop
and ran smack into — ^now, whom do you think?"

"Richard Chatterton, of course!" said Lady Merriam
complacently.

"No, it was not I It was that fellow Montague I"

"Heavens ! George, you haven't had a row — ^you didn't
make a scene?" >

"Yes, I did; I called him a cad and a liar, if that's
making a scene; I'd have knocked him down, too, if
the manager of the shop hadn't interfered."

"Very clever! Very clever indeed," said Lady Mer-
riam with sarcasm. "Now there'll be a fresh scandal
for people to hear."

"He threatened me with his solicitor and I threatened
him wit!i mine. If you think I'm going to shake hands
with a puppy like that after what he's done and
said . . ."

"Here comes Sonia — ^you 'd better not say anything
to her."

"Is it likely?" old Jardine demanded offendedly.

"The most likely thing in the world, I should imagine,**
was the tart retort.

Lady Merriam sat between him and Sonia during
lunch; she guided the conversation skillfully; she could
be a wonderfully tactful woman when she chose, but she
felt anxious.

If Montague were back in London one never knew
when they might stumble across him; London is the
smallest place in all the world when one wishes it to
be the largest.

She kept very close to the girl during the afternoon
at the matinee ; she had told old Jardine that it was im-
possible for Montague to harm her in any way, but at
heart she was not really so optimistic.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 325

The programme was entertaining and varied. A fam-
ous operatic singer was followed by a revue star who
displayed a great expanse of leg and very little talent;
Lady Merriam whispered indignantly to old Jardine,
"The hussy! — It would never have been allowed when
I was young: what are people thinking about!"

Old Jardine chuckled; he was rather enjoying it him-
self.

Presently —

"There is no news of Richard, I suppose?" asked Lady
Merriam under cover of the programme.

"None! I expected a letter at the club, but there
were only a couple of bills."

Lady Merriam laughed.

"I have plenty of those."

He frowned a little.

"That's your fault; if you'd give me the right to pay
them, nothing in the world would please me better."

Lady Merriam blushed.

"You're a dear," she said softly.

Old Jardine choked; he sat staring straight ahead of
him at the flower-decked stage; he felt absurdly
happy.

During the interval he went out to "get some air,"
as he diplomatically put it; Lady Merriam surveyed the
house through her lorgnette ; she was gratified to see that
many people who knew Sonia were there; she assured
herself that the girl's presence would do a great deal
to convince them that all the talk had been empty.

A thin young man in khaki dropped into old Jardine's
vacant seat beside her.

"Thought I spotted you when you came in," he said
in rather a drawling voice. "How d'ye do? And

326 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

Mrs. Montague, too • • /' he smilingly extended a hand
to Sonia.

There was a ghastly silence; Sonia's face had turned
perfectly white — ^there was something piteous in her eyes.

The man saw that he had blundered in some way ; he
blushed ingenuously; he looked with helpless appeal at
Lady Merriam.

"I say — I hope I ... I sayl"

Lady Merriam grasped at her vanishing composure;
she laughed a little as if she found him amusing.

"Have you heard that story, too? How very ab-
surd! I should so like to know where it originated.
Sonia — Mr. Varrick thought you had married Francis
Montague — isn't it droll?" She looked at the discom-
fited yotmg man with friendly eyes.

"It's quite a mistake," she said suavely. "Do contra-
dict it when you hear it again, won't you? Yes, I*m
sure you will," as he burst into incoherent apologies
and assurances. "Isn't it wonderful how these stories
get about? Sonia isn't even engaged, you know. . . .*'

Young Varrick looked horribly embarrassed.

"I heard it when I came home/' he explained halt-
ingly. "I've been out at the Base, you know, with the
A.O.C. I say, I'm awfully sorry — ^but the mater told
me — and, of course, I thought she'd know; I say, I'm
awfully sorry ..."

"That woman is a viper," said Lady Merriam between
her teeth when at last the young man took himself off,
still blushing and apologetic "She knows quite well it's
a pack of lies. Sonia, do try and pull yourself together,
dear child; people will begin to notice you with that
white face. Here comes Mr. Jardine."

The curtain rose as Old Jardine came back to his seat
and the lights were lowered in the house.

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 327

Thankful for the darkness, Sonia sat with her hands
gripped together, biting her lip hard.

"Mrs. Montague!" How she had hated the sound!
how dared he have called her that!

She did not believe that it had been a genuine mistake;
she felt as if it had been a deliberate insult offered
to her.

She leaned across to Lady Merriam.

"Need we stay any longer? I want to go."

Lady Merriam groped through the darkness and foiu'd
the girl's hand.

"It will soon be over, dear — ^this is the last item on
the programme."

She deliberately delayed their departure; she dropped
her glasses and gloves, and kept Old Jardine fussing in
attendance after most of the stalls were empty, so that
anyone who cared to see should have a chance of recog-
nizing Sonia. A little flush had come back to the girl's
cheeks. She held her head high as she followed Lady
Merriam into the foyer.

Lady Merriam spoke to everybody she knew; she in-
sisted on dragging Sonia into the conversation ; she even
went out of her way to speak to young Varrick again.

"And now we'll just have comfortable time to go
back to the hotel for tea before we catch our train,"
she said with a little sigh of relief as she followed Sonia
into the taxicab. "Sonia, I'm gasping for tea."

Old Jardine was looking very glum ; he was desperately
sorry for Sonia.

He was wondering what Chatterton would think or
say if the gossip ever reached him. Chatterton was a
jealous man, and he already had good cause to hate
Montague.

"We '11 have tea in the lounge," said Lady Merriam

328 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

when they reached the hotel. "It's more private, and
I'm positively hungry. I never feel that I dare eat
very much with a roomful of people staring at me/'

Sonia assented listlessly ; her cheeks still burned when-
ever she thought of young Varrick's words; she wan-
dered across the lounge to a bank of spring flowers
artistically arranged in front of a large sheet of glass.

There were very few people about; Lady Merriam
had chosen one of the smaller hotels at Sonia's request ;
behind the flower bank was a recess leading to a sitting-
room; it looked quiet and unoccupied — Sonia pushed
the half-closed door wide and entered.

Just for a moment she would be so thankful to be
alone; she still seemed to feel the eyes of the/ crowded
theater upon her; she had imagined that they must all
be those uncharitable people who had bandied her name
in their midst.

She sat down in a chair at a writing-table and leaned
her head on her hand; she felt so utterly miserable —
at that moment it seemed as if there were nothing left
to look forward to or hope for in all the world.

There was a little movement behind her — the sound
of a chair being slowly pushed back.

Sonia started and turned; a man was raising himself
with difficulty from a cushioned chair; a tall man in
khaki — a man who . . .

Sonia felt the blood ebbing away from her face — from
her very heart, till her whole body was cold and dead;
she tried to move, but all power seemed to have left
her; she tried to speak, but her lips felt as if they were
cut in ice ; she just sat there, helplessly, staring up into
Richard Chatterton's worn face.

CHAPTER XXY

IT seemed afterwards to Sonia that surely years and
not moments slipped away while she sat there,
before the blood began to stir again in her veins
and the power of speech and movement returned to her.

She rose giddily to her feet; she kept her hand on
the table beside her for support She believed that this
ineeting had been deliberately arranged by Lady Mer-
riam and old Jardine.

How dared theyl She had told them that she never
wished to see this man again; what matter that it had
b^en a miserable, desperate lie to save her own pride
and hide the hurt in her heart?

She tried hard not to see the change in the face that
had once been so careless and debonair; she tried not
to see the droop in the shoulders that had once been so
squared; she tried to tell herself that it was nothing
to her that he still wore his arm in a sling and moved
so painfully.

She began to speak, but her voice sounded strange;
she moistened her dry lips and began again expres-
sionlessly.

'*I did not know you were in London! I hope you
are better."

She forced her eyes to his face; she would remember
nothing but that once he had wished to marry her for
hef money; she would forget everything but that he
had given his ring to another woman.

329

330 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

"I hope you are better," she said again painfully.

She felt as if she must scream or throw herself down
and weep and weep for the havoc in his face; she kept
her hand gripped hard on the table-edge, so that she
should not throw it out to him to touch his wounded
arm with tender fingers and lay her lips to his rough
khaki sleeve.

Sometimes in her dreams she had lived through this
moment, and the delirious joy of it all, but now —
now there was nothing but pain tearing at her heart ^
Is she stood there, so near to him — and yet a thousand
Iniles away.

Chatterton seemed not to have heard her perfunctory
question; the shock of seeing her had robbed him of
fcven the power to think.

She had lived in his heart and memory so long; she
had haunted his delirium when his body had been racked
and tortured with pain; she had haunted his wakeful
nights when impatience would not let him sleep; every
moment of each endless day had been filled with her.

And now she was here— close to him; now he had
only to put out a hand to touch her, not one word of all
that he had meant to say to her would come to his lips.

Like a man in a dream, he found himself answering her.

"I am much better, thank you. I only came over
last night. I wrote to Mr. Jardine to meet me; I sup-
pose he never got my letter."

It was all so ordinary — so mundane; any onlooker
would have taken them for the merest acquaintances —
would never have guessed that Chatterton's heart was
throbbing enough to break his ribs, or that Sonia felt
breathless and choked with the force of her emotions. ^

"Mr. Jardine!" The mention of his name was like
a straw thrown to a drowning man. Sonia turned hur-

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 331

riedly towards the door. "He is here — ^he is in the
lounge. We have been to the hospital matinee this after-
noon. Lady Merriam is here, too. I will tell them."

She was gone before he could say one word to detain
her.

Sonia went out into the lounge. Her cheeks were
fiery. She walked across to where Lady Merriam and
old Jardine were sitting. She looked at the old man
with burning eyes.

**Mr. Chatterton is in the next room. If you have
brought him here for me, I will never forgive you as
long as I live."

"Sonia!" Old Jardine was on his feet in an instant.
"Richard Chatterton! Good Gk)d! I had no idea!
Where is he? Bless my soul!"

He was gone in a flash; Sonia sat down beside Lady
Merriam.

"If you have brought him here for me I will never
forgive you !" she said again ; she was trembling in every
limb.

Lady Merriam opened her mouth to speak and closed
it again ; she poured out a cup of tea and gave it to Sonia.

"Don't be a ridiculous child," she said. "Why should
we bring Richard Chatterton here for you? I hadn't
the least idea that he was in London. The poor boy
has as much right to be in the hotel as we have. I shall
certainly have to go and see him. You stay here and
drink your tea quietly."

She rustled away, leaving Sonia alone.

Her heart was throbbing dully; she felt bitterly re-
sentful.

Richard had belonged to her first, and yet now he
had come home she could not go to him; she had even
been wrong in imagining that old Jardine and Lady

332 RICHARD CHAIYERTON, V.C

Merriam had arranged the meeting; they had not even
troubled to do that, they had so certainly believed that
everything was at an end between them.

And he looked so ill. She set her teeth hard to keep
back a sob that would rise in her throat.

She wondered where he would go now, and who would
look after him.

She remembered Nurse Anderson. No doubt she had
seen him already; her heart throbbed with jealousy.

She sat staring before her with burning eyes.

What were they talking about in that room together?
She longed to know; tears smarted in her eyes.

It was not fair that she should be left; she wanted
to be with him. If she could just have touched his
hand.

Lady Merriam came back; she looked as if she had
been crying ; she sat down beside Sonia with a little sigh,

"Poor dear Richard!" She glanced at the girl
apologetically. "Do you mind if I talk about him, dear?
No, I was sure you wouldn't" — as Sonia shook her head.
"What a change! Those horrible Germans! He must
have suffered agonies . . . and yet he's quite ready to
go back if they'll take him."

"Go back!" Sonia echoed the words stiffly; they
sounded almost expressionless, though in her heart she
was crying out passionately: "No, no — not again ... I
can't t^ar it all over again."

"That's what he says. But between you and me hell
never be fit to go back — ^that poor arm of his! Luckily
it's the left. I can't imagine what he'll do . . . nobody
to look after him ..." She stifled a sob.

"There are hundreds of men worse off than he," said
Sonia.

She had to say it; it was the only way to keep back

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C. 333

the overwhelming torrent of sorrow for him that seemed
to be nearly breaking her heart.

Lady Merriam sighed.

"Of course there are, poor dears!" She helped her-
self to a third cup of tea.

"George is going to stay in town with him — ^he won't
come back to Burvale with us to-night. The poor
boy isn't really fit to be left to strangers. Here they
come. Do be nice to him, Sonia — it's only just for a
few moments. You need never meet him again."

Sonia did not raise her eyes as the two men came
across to where they sat, but she knew that old Jardine
had his hand through Chatt«rton's arm, and that they
were walking very slowly; she had to move her chair
back a little to make room for them to pass. Chatterton
thanked her gravely.

It was torture to sit there and hear his voice; once
when he laughed at something old Jardine said her whole
body seemed to wince as if from a blow. The old, light,
careless laugh — suffering had not changed that.

Lady Merriam plied him with questions about the war.
Was it true that all the German soldiers were cowards?
She had heard it said on very good authority that they
were.

Richard said gravely he thought she had been mis-
informed, though there was a little twinkle in his eye;
he leaned back in his chair rather wearily; he had not
once glanced towards Sonia.

"I never saw anyone get so thin as you have," her
ladyship rattled on. "Your clothes are perfect sacks."

"They never fitted particularly well," he told her with
a touch of humor; he spread out his hand and glanced
at it consideringly.

334 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

"I suppose I am a bit lean/' he admitted.

Lady Merriam touched his fingers lightly.

"Lean ! — ^you're mere skin and bone 1 And what have
you done with that ring you used to wear? I don't
recognize your hand without it."

Sonia raised her eyes quickly, but there was not the
slightest embarrassment in his face.

"That's what I don't know myself," he said. "I've got
an idea that I left it in the hospital last time I was home
. . . when my arm was bad ; my hand got rather swollen,
you know, and I couldn't wear it. I think I must have
left it there ; I must write and ask ; I don't want to lose
it." He turned his head a little and his eyes met
Soma's.

There was a little silence ; old Jardine rose to his feet ;
he pulled out his watch.

"If you're catching that train " he said depre-

catingly, looking at Lady Merriam.

"Goodness! I'd forgotten all about trains. Come,
Sonia."

Sonia obeyed with a sense of helplessness ; she looked
round for her gloves ; she felt confused and faint.

"My gloves — I don't know where they are. Oh, per-
haps I left them in the other room."

Lady Merriam was talking to old Jardine. Neither of
them noticed her ; Chatterton had risen and was standing
leaning on the chair-back.

Sonia went across the lounge to the little room behind
the screen of flowers.

She wondered if she would have to shake hands with
Richard — she could not! She could not . . . before
them all !"

It was cruel of Lady Merriam to have brought him
out there — to have let him sit next to her — ^to have ex-

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 335

pected her to talk and behave as if nothing unusual were
happening.

She could not go back and face him ; she would rather
die than have to say good-by to him as if it were noth-
ing — ^nothing.

And if that were true about his ring — ^if he had not
given it to Nurse Anderson after all.

She closed the door behind her and stood there in
the empty room with her hands over her face.

". . . All my life I shall love you . . . Sonia! If I
could only hold you in my arms again . . ."

She had learnt those words by heart during those ter-
rible days when she had believed that Richard was dead ;
they had saved her heart from breaking. Somehow he
had not seemed so utterly lost to her then as now, when
the shadow of another woman lay between them.

If only she could feel his arms around her again —
if only she could hear him say, "I love you . . ."

She wrenched her thoughts back to the present and
looked round vacantly. Why had she come here — why?
Oh, yes, her gloves!

"I have them," said Chatterton's voice in the doorway.
"You dropped them in the lounge."

He came into the room and closed the door behind
him. His face was very white, but there was a quiet
determination in his eyes.

"May I speak to you for a moment?"

She had held out her hand for the gloves, but he did
not give them up. She broke out desperately:

"We shall miss the train — ^Lady Merriam said "

"There are plenty more trains, and I won't keep you
a moment."

But he seemed to find it difficult to begin.

Sonia looked at him.

336 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C.

"Well?" She hated herself for the flippancy of her
voice; she turned her eyes away.

Chatterton tried to think of some of the many things
he had planned to say when he lay awake during those
endless nights in France. He had believed that they
would come so easily to his lips if he ever had the
chance to say them; but now they had all traitorously
fled.

"Sonia — I — I — I wanted to say — ^to ask you " But

he could not go on.

His heart seemed to turn to water as he looked at her
— so sweet and desirable she was with her pale, set little
face and averted eyes. He took a sttxmbling step to-
wards her. He broke out stammeringly, desperately :

"Sonia — Sonia — for God's sake, forgive me! I know
I'm not fit to touch you — ^but if you knew what a hell
my life's been since you sent me away; I didn't under-
stand. ... I didn't understand. ..."

She answered him mechanically :

"There isn't anything to forgive. I've often thought
since that — that I was in the wrong as well. Don't let's
say any more about it. We've both apologized — we can
cry quits."

The words seemed forced from her — she had not
meant to say one of them ; but her heart was in a panic ;
her one longing was to get away from him. She passed
him hurriedly, without looking at him. She pulled open
the door; it yielded to her hand more easily than she
had expected. As Chatterton stepped aside it swung
back and struck his injured arm.

A little exclamation of pain escaped him. It was stifled
instantly, but not before she had heard it. She let the
door go— she felt as if resentment and pride and the
barrier of jealousy which she had built round her heart

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 337

died in that instant. She turned to him with a little
hurt cry.

"Oh, your poor arm . . ." She touched his bandaged
hand with compassionate fingers; she bent her head and
laid her soft cheek against his rough sleeve.

"Sonia . . . Sonia," said Chatterton hoarsely.

The big fellow was trembling all over ; he groped back-
wards with his uninjured hand for a chair and dropped
into it; a horrible sense of physical weakness overcame
him; he leaned his forehead on his arm.

Sonia knelt beside him; the sight of his weakness
broke her down when nothing else could have done ; she
laid her cheek against his shoulder.
I Chatterton raised his head.

! "Sonia — it isn't all — just make-believe? It isn't just

because you've sorry for me?"

He put his hand under her soft chin, holding it gently
so that she could not turn away; he searched her face
with passionate eyes.

Did she really love him after all? There was still a
doubt in his jealous heart.

The color ran up into her cheeks, but she met his
gaze steadily.

After a long moment he let her go.

"If I had only two arms," he said brokenly.

Sonia raised herself a little; she bent and kissed the
injured arm hanging helplessly in its sling.

"But I have, dear," she whispered as she put both
her own round his neck.

There was so much to explain. "I don't know
where to begin," said Qiatterton brokenly. "I am afraid
to let you go for an instant for fear I shall wake up and
find it's a dream, and that I'm back again in France."

338 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

She clung to him.

"Dick! You'll never have to go back?"

He glanced down ruefully at his injured arm.

"I shouldn't be any use like this."

"I couldn't let you. ... I couldn't ! Oh, those awful
days when we'd thought you'd been killed !"

His face clouded.

"I used to wish I had been. They told me you had
married Montague" — his arm tightened about her.
"Sonia — you never loved him, did you? Out there it
used to drive me mad sometimes to think that he was
here at home — ^in my place."

She hid her face against his shoulder.

"It was only just at first — ^because I was angry with
you. When you had gone away, I soon found out —
Dick, if you will let me tell you . . .'*

He interrupted almost fiercely:

"I don't want to hear an)rthing about him; I hope to
God I shall never see him again. If ever I do " he
stopped abruptly.

Sonia was frightened; she thought of the mistake
young Varrick had made in the theater only that after-
noon ; it might so nearly have been the truth. She broke
out again agitatedly :

"But I want to tell you — I couldn't bear that you
shouldn't know everything.

He lifted her head from his shoulder; he held her
gently at arm's length so that she could not longer hide
her face.

"It's enough that I have got you safely again.
Sonia, you '11 never have the chance to get away from
me any more; you'll find I'm a second Bluebeard. You
used to say that I didn't know the meaning of the
word jealousy." He caught her close to his heart. "I

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 339

know it now ! I think it's the only thing I have known
during these last months."

She looked away from him ; the words found an echo
in her own heart; she had been jealous, too! She
thought of the ring she had seen Nurse Anderson
wearing.

Well, she would let it pass ; she had him back again —
she could afford to be generous, as he had been, and
ask no questions. The past was dead, and buried;
they had the future — 3. wonderful future — and each
other !

Someone tapped at the door — Sonia started to her
feet ; she had forgotten that they were in a public sitting-
room; old Jardine opened the door a cautious inch and
looked dubiously in.

"I — er," he began, then a beaming smile crossed his
face. "God bless my soul!" he ejaculated delightedly.
He almost danced back to Lady Merriam in the lounge.

"They've made it up — Gad! I feel fifty years
younger."

Lady Merriam sighed.

"Well, I hope this is the end of it," she said tolerantly.
"I hope Richard Chatterton will marry her at once and
have done with it."

Old Jardine did not think there was much doubt
about it.

"Made for each other, those two were," he declared
ecstatically. "Gad! I don't know when I've been so
happy !"

"Silly old man!" said Lady Merriam; but she smiled
up into his beaming face.

And, back in the little room, Sonia had at last remem^
bered to ask for her gloves.

340 RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C

"We must have been here ages — ^and you haven't g^veri
me my gloves yet, Dick."

"I'm going to keep them. I'll buy you some more."

She laughed and flushed.

"Silly boy! Dick " She grew suddenly grave.

"I — I haven't told you yet how proud I am — about . . .
you know . . . the V.C." She looked up at him with
tears in her eyes. "You're such a hero— I'm — I'm almost
afraid of you."

The color deepened in his thin face.

"And I am afraid, too," he said simply. "Afraid that
this happiness is too great to last." They had moved
towards the door to follow old Jardine, but Chatterton
turned suddenly and put his arm round her. "Sonia,
I'm more afraid of you than I was of all the Germans."
He tried to laugh; he stooped towards her and pas-
sionately kissed her lips. He caught her to him a little
breathlessly.

"Sonia — ^you never — ^never kissed — ^any — any other
man — ^like that?" he asked jealously.

"Dick!"

"Darling, I'm such a jealous beggar," he apologized
humbly. "Dearest, you're not crying?"

"If I am, it's only because I'm so happy."

"Really -and truly?"

"Really and truly, dear."

Old Jardine had knocked twice at the door and got
no answer; after a moment he ventured to turn the
handle, but neither of them heard him, and he went
back to Lady Merriam.

"I'm afraid you won't catch that train, my dear," he
submitted apologetically.

Lady Merriam was nodding in the most comfortable

RICHARD CHATTERTON, V.C 34i

chair she could find; she roused herself with an effort
and yawned.

"I could have told you that an hour ago/' she said
comfortably.

Old Jardine rubbed his chin.

"God bless my soul!" he ejaculated helplessly.

i«s END

EDGAR RICE BURROUGH'S

NOVELS

May be had wtwrawr boote aw told. A»k for Grostrt ft Dunlap't litt

TARZAN THE UNTAMED

Tells of Tarzan's return to the life of the ape-man in
his search for vengeance on those who took from him his
wife and home.

JUNGLE TALES OF TARZAN

Records the many wonderful exploits by which Tarzan
proves his right to ape kingship.

A PRINCESS OF MARS

Forty-three million miles from the earth — a succession
of the weirdest and most astounding adventures in fiction.
John Carter, American, finds himself on the planet Mars,
battling for a beautiful woman, with the Green Men of
Mars, terrible creatures fifteen feet high, mounted on
horses like dragons.

THE GODS OF MARS

! Continuing John Carter* s adventures on the Planet Mars,

in which he does battle against the ferocious ' V^mt men,"
creatures whose mighty tails swished their victims to instant
death, and defies Issus, the terrible Goddess of Death,
whom all Mars worships and reveres.

THE WARLORD OF MARS

Old acquaintances, made in the two other stories, reap*
pear. Tars Tarkas, Tardos Mors and others. There is a
happy ending to the story in the union of the Warlord,
the title conferred upon John Carter, with Dejah Thoris.

THUVIA, MAID OF MARS

The fourth volume of the series. The story centers
around the adventures of Carthoris, the son of John Car-
ter and Thuvia, daughter of a Martian Emperor.

GROSSET & D UNLA P, Pubu shers, NE W YO RK

FLORENCE L. BARCLAY'S

NOVELS

May to bH wMftwr hooto wn Mid. Atk ftr finstst ft Dimlap't lisL

THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER

A novel of the 12th Century. Tlie heroine, believing she
had lost her lover, enters a conTent. He returns, and in-
teresting developments follow.

THE UPAS TREE

A love story of rare cbarm. It deab with a successful
author and his vdf e.

THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE

a seven day courtship, in which the dis-
crepancy in ages vanished into insignificance before the
convincmg demonstration of abidlcg love.

THE ROSARY

The story of a young artist who is ra;>uted to love beauty
above all else in the world, but who, when blinded through
an accident, gains life's greatest happiness. A rare story
of the great passion of two real people superbly capable of
love, its sacrifices and its exceeding reward,

THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE

The lovely young Lady Ingleby, recently wirlow^d by the
death of a husband who never understood her, meets a fine,
clean young chap who is ignorant of her title and ihey fall
deeply in k>ve with each other. When he learns h\»r real
identity a situation of singular power b developed.

THE BROKEN HALO

The story of a young man whoii religious belief wa«
shattered in childhood and restored to him bythe)^ttle
white lady, many years older than himself, to whom he U
passionately devoted.

THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR

The story of a young missionary, who, about to start for
Africa, marries wealthy Diana Rivers, in order to help her
fulfill the conditions of her uncle's will, and how they finally
come to love each other and are reunited after experiences
that soften and purify.

Grosset & DuNLAP, Publishers, New York

p^^a^^^^^^s

ETHEL M. DELL'S NOVELS

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THE LAMP IN THE DESERT

The scene of this splendid story is laid in India and
tells of the lamp of love that continues to shine through
T all sorts of tribulations to final happiness.

GREATHEART

The story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals
a noble souL

THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE

A hero who worked to win even when there was only
'* a hundredth chance.'*

THE SWINDLER

The story of a ''bad man's*' soul revealed by ^
woman's faith.

THE TIDAL WAVE

Tales of love and of women who learned to know the
true from the false.

THE SAFETY CURTAIN

A very vivid love story of India. The volume also
^ contains four other long; stories of equal interest

Grosset & DuNLAP, Publishers, New York

KATHLEEN NORRIS* STORIES

May bo had wharavtr books an soM. Ask for ttretsot & Oanlap's list

^■^»^-^— ^ ^^^■^» II I I — w^— — ^— ^— — ^^— ■— w^— ^i^M

SISTERS. Frontispiece by Frank Street

The California Redwoods famish the backgroand for this
'beautiful story of sisterly devotion and sacrifice.

POOR, DEAR, MARGARET KIRBY.

Frontispiece by George Gibbs.

A collection of delightful stories, including ** Bridging the
Years'* and "The Tide-Marsh." This story is now shown in
moving pictures.

JOSSELYN'S WIFE. Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.

The story of a beautiful woman who fought a bitter fight tor
happiness and love.

MARTIE, THE UNCONQUERED.

Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers. ^

The triumph of a dauntless spirit over adverse conditions.

THE HEART OF RACHAEL.

Frontispiece by Charles £. Chambers.

An interesting story of divorce and the problems that come
with a second marriage.

THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE.

Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.

A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of a normal girl, obscure
.uid lonely, for the happiness of life.

SATURDAY'S CHILD. Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.

■ Can a girl, bom in rather sordid conditions, lift herself through
sheer determination to the better things for which her soul
hungered ?

. MOTHER. lUustrated by F. C Yohn.

A story of the big mother heart that beats in the background
of every girl's life, and some dreams which came trae.

Aak for Compleie fnt M of C & D, Popular Copyrighted RcHon

GrOSSET ic DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS^ NeW YoRK